


and we'll never be royals

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Bernie Wolfe transfers to Cambridge at the start of her second year and finds herself living down the hall from the future queen of England. A tentative friendship begins, but every interaction is weighted with the knowledge that Serena lives with a crown on her head and Bernie decidedly does not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this as a slight AU of "The Royal We" by Heather Cocks and Jessica Morgan. University AU mixed with Royalty AU. I don't know a lot about the monarchy or lines of succession! I also don't know a lot about Cambridge and the British schooling system! Bear with! Other things are way more important in this story!

It’s raining when Bernie arrives at Downing College, the taxi pulling up on Lensfield Road. She doesn’t have her umbrella handy, it’s packed away in some corner of her duffel. The rest of her clothing will arrive later, she’s got just the necessities in her suitcase, her school supplies in her shoulder bag. She’s fumbling with the keys she’s been given when the door opens, a smiling girl about her age at the door.

“Rather like a drowned rat, aren’t you?” she says, but there’s no bite to her words and she reaches out to take Bernie’s duffel bag, and Bernie hands it over willingly. “You’d think I’d be more prepared for weather like this, wouldn’t you?” Bernie says easily, willing to laugh at herself, shrugging slightly as they enter into the house. The other girl is dressed in a soft, worn Cambridge sweatshirt, cotton shorts exposing long, pale legs, and Bernie forces herself to look away. “You’re the transfer, right? University of Essex not quite up to snuff? Your room’s up here.” The stairway is small, cramped, and Bernie is getting rather an eyeful of the well-rounded arse in front of her. Bernie doesn’t know how this girl knows any of that, but is used to the movement of gossip through a college, and can’t imagine there’s any semblance of privacy in a six-room house. Bernie stays quiet, not quite sure what to say. Essex wasn’t what she expected, wasn’t as rigorous, as prestigious as she wanted from her university experience. They arrive at the top of the steps, five closed doors facing them. The girl turns to look at Bernie and there’s something familiar about her, but Bernie can’t quite place her face. She opens her mouth to ask, but says, “Perhaps I’m just on a tour of all the universities this fair country has on offer.”

That earns her a chuckle from her tour guide, who opens the only door that’s bare of any kind of decoration, and drops Bernie’s duffel just inside. “Sparse, but we all make it work,” she says, smiling again at Bernie. “A room of one’s own, as it were,” Bernie answers, and holds out her hand. “Bernie Wolfe, by the way.” “Serena,” is the answer, and when their fingers touch, Bernie feels an undeniable spark, a warmth beneath her ribcage. And then Serena pulls her hand away, vanishes, disappears through the door at the end of the hall. “So,” a cold voice says from across the way, coming from a stony-faced girl, arms crossed in front of her, leaning against her own door frame. “You’ve met the Crown Princess.”

And then it clicks in Bernie’s head, why Serena looks familiar, where she’s seen her face: on every newspaper in the country for as long as she’s been alive. Her friends at Essex joked that she was only transferring to get closer to the princess, her reputation as a ladies’ woman well-known around the college, but Bernie scoffed, told them there was little to no chance of their paths ever crossing.

“I didn’t...I’m not...she’s....yes,” is all Bernie can come up with to say, twisting her fingers slightly.

“I’ve known her my whole life, my family has summered with the McKinnies since we were children.” There’s a punctilious air about this woman that Bernie truly does not care for.

“Are you expecting me to curtsy?” she asks, eyebrow raised and the other girl snorts, the only time Bernie thinks she’s ever seen the action done elegantly.

“We know about you, _Berenice_. Your reputation at Essex. Your....varied romantic history. The crown princess will never marry a commoner, nor a woman to boot.”

Bernie feels a sudden pang of sadness for Serena, that one of the people she’s known her whole life should be so cold, so uptight. “I’m just here for schooling,” Bernie musters. “I didn’t even...didn’t even think.”

“Yes, well, you might want to start using that brain of yours. People in the company of royals often....lose their heads.” And without another word, the girl spins on her heel and slams her door shut, leaving Bernie alone in hallway, feeling well and truly poleaxed.

Bernie goes into her own room, sits on the low dorm bed, the mattress just as bad as the one in her housing at Essex, the walls a stark white color, tiny holes left from nails dotting the surface. She opens up her small duffel bag, unpacks the few clothes she has with her, knows the rest will arrive on the weekend. She puts out her school supplies, pens, pencils, her laptop, arranges it on the desk so neatly, knows she’ll never maintain this level of order

There’s a framed picture, her smiling face, arm around Alex, a friend, more than a friend, if she’s honest, from Essex, their faces brown from the sun, field hockey jerseys on, and Bernie just hopes she can find that sort of happiness here too.

She touches the photo lightly, just two fingers, and then opens up her computer, types Serena’s name into the computer. She’s got a ridiculous name, double - no triple barreled, all strung together, but she goes by Serena McKinnie, the house name of her parents, of her grandparents and so on, a relic from the days of the Scots coming into power.

Serena is lovely, Bernie knows that well enough from seeing her in person, but seeing her in neat dresses, in beautiful hats, her arm raised in an elegant wave, it’s a level of beauty that catches Bernie off guard

She scrolls through the image results for far too long, lingering over some of the close-ups of her face, the dimple in her chin, her lovely brown hair curling at her shoulders.

Then Bernie turns her attention to some of the articles about her, about the distance between the Queen and her daughter, their strained relationship. She feels strange, rifling through Serena’s personal life, her history, like she’s peering in through a window to her home, unknown and unseen. They’ve not even had a real conversation and she already knows everything about Serena’s entire life. She closes her laptop, realizes it’s dark outside, and curls up in her bed, the only reasonable thing she can think of to do.

-

It turns out that Serena keeps to herself, that she’s a private person, and Bernie can hardly blame her. They occasionally cross paths walking to and from their rooms, and Serena smiles in a way that Bernie feels she’s practiced her entire life, polite and aloof, a smile that doesn’t invite further interaction.

She learns the room across the hall from Serena’s houses a bodyguard, likes to imagine the muscular woman she’s nicknamed Ginger, for her red hair, scrunched up in one of the small dorm beds, wonders if she’s even bothered to decorate the walls. She knows that Serena never goes anywhere alone, her bodyguard like a shadow, her friends a protective cluster around her.

Bernie isn’t a part of that, she doesn’t know if she will be. Sian Kors, the girl across the hall, regards her with suspicion at all times. Ric Griffin and Henrik Hanssen, two other students, live on the first floor and seem to be allowed access to the inner circle. And there’s another guy, Edward, who hangs around a lot, Bernie’s seen Serena laughing with him as she walks along the pathways of Downing College.

Mostly, though, Crown Princess Serena of House McKinnie is not a part of Bernie’s life. A few of her friends ask questions but Bernie brushes them off every time. She wouldn’t feel right, she thinks, divulging any aspects of Serena’s personal life to people that weren’t explicitly allowed to see. Paparazzi have been banned from campus, a sort of respectful detente with the Palace, and in return, Serena will do occasional press conferences with her mother, the Queen, and answer questions the public is clamoring to ask.

Bernie buys the magazines every time, likes to look at the photos of Serena, to imagine the girl behind them, knows she’s part of the privileged few that gets to bear witness to her growing into the woman who will become queen.

And then she throws the tabloids away in garbage cans off campus so that no one in her house will ever know she looks at them.

Bernie continues her studies, not even halfway through her six year course of study, cursing herself at least once a week for choosing medicine as her path, even though she rightly knows it will make her happy in the end. She studies late into the night, wakes early to run along the river, the cool mist rising from the water, the sun peeking through the trees. It all feels idyllic, serene, and Bernie finds a sort of equilibrium.

There’s a morning, when she’s nearing the end of her run, the rowhouses in sight, that she sees a familiar head bent over a book, the future Queen of England leaning against a gnarled tree. Bernie doesn’t see Ginger anywhere in sight, finds it curious that Serena should be alone, can’t help herself from intruding, lopes over to her. It’s only when she blocks the beam of sun that’s made its way through the trees that Serena even looks up.

“Good morning?” she says, her voice going up in a question, but she doesn’t seem annoyed or disgruntled.

“I thought that was you,” is what Bernie manages, thinks that the two real conversations she’s had with Serena now have involved her dripping, first with rainwater, now with sweat. She almost laughs to think of her friends at Essex, all telling her to woo the princess, that she’s got every chance of pulling her. She’s not making a very good attempt.

“Caught me out. Sometimes I just like to…” Serena trails off, half gestures to the quiet around her, and Bernie thinks she understands. The feeling of being alone, of having time to herself. “Have a seat,” she says, patting the patch of grass next to her and Bernie slides into a cross-legged position easily, leaning back on her hands, the tendons in her wrists stretching.

“I’m allowed?” she asks, “I’m not in anyone’s crosshairs?”

“I have a tacit agreement that once a week, I’m allowed to have this quiet time to myself, and my bodyguards do me the courtesy of pretending as if they aren’t just out of sight, watching my every move,” Serena says with a laugh, and Bernie chuckles too, almost bumps her shoulder against Serena’s but stops herself, worries that might be too friendly, that it might be going too far.

“What are you reading?” she asks instead, and Serena flips the book closed, her finger neatly holding her place, and Bernie reads the title: _The Phantom Tollbooth_. “For one of your courses, eh?” she says, smiling, and that gets another laugh out of Serena, and Bernie feels like she’s just won a race, a contest, something, feels her smile beaming from her as bright as any medal around her neck.

“Sometimes I just like to reread the old favorites, just turn off my brain from the politics and the history, and the international relations. I’ll spend the rest of my life worrying about that but this, right now? I can have an hour free of that.” The way she says it, so casually resigned to her fate, makes Bernie look at her anew, and she thinks she can almost see the red cloak, trimmed with white fur, weighing on Serena’s shoulders, the golden crown heavy on her head, her future a life sentence more than anything else. She adjusts her hands slightly, rocks just a bit, and her shoulder does come into contact with Serena’s, just lightly, and Bernie thinks she can see a flush tinge Serena’s cheeks.

“My sister was always stealing the books out of my room, jealous that I got to go to school before her, that I left her alone.” Bernie’s heard a little of Serena’s sister, only half-related through some sort of scandal that she hasn’t made any attempt to search for on the internet, hasn’t opened up that section on Wikipedia. But there’s no venom in Serena’s voice, no resentment about it, so Bernie supposes it’s all right, that it’s not something Serena’s much concerned with. “She used to call me Swotty Serena because I was reading all the time, but she read just as much.” Serena’s voice is fond, and Bernie wonders where her sister is now, what she’s doing.

But then the clocktower tolls, and Bernie knows she has to get back for a shower before class, pushes herself up to a standing position, and holds out her hand to help Serena up.

She feels a tingle when Serena’s fingers slide along her palm, when she grips Bernie’s wrist, strong and sure, like she trusts that Bernie will be able to pull her to her feet. It’s the same spark she felt when they shook hands all those weeks ago. They stand, face to face, for a long moment, and then Bernie ducks her head, makes her excuses and takes off at a slow jog, doesn’t look back over her shoulder, even though her traitorous mind tells her Serena will look beautiful with the morning sun as a halo behind her head.

-

It’s two weekends later that Bernie is invited to come out to The Eagle, her housemates imploring her to come, and Bernie lets herself get swept along, feeling for the first time as if she’s earned a place with all of them. Ric, who’s turned out to be another medical student, slings his arm around her shoulders as if they’re old friends, even if she’s only seen him from across the lecture hall and occasionally standing around the kitchen while they wait for tea to brew.

“I don’t want to alarm you, Wolfe, but your presence tonight is of paramount importance,” he says, his words slurred a little as if he’s already been drinking, and Bernie thinks she can smell warm beer on his breath.

“Is it now?” she says, eyebrow raised.

“It is,” Serena’s voice comes from behind Bernie and she starts at the sound, dislodging Ric’s hand. Serena threads an arm through Bernie’s, like it’s normal, like they’ve done this thousands of times. “It’s the annual Eagle Gulp, and we need a fourth. Sian’s off with her boyfriend, which means your time has come, for queen and country!” She says it with mock sincerity, the sort of stirring tones expected from a politician, from a public figure. Ric hoots in Bernie’s ear, and she sees Henrik, walking a little in front of them, raise a fist in half-hearted solidarity.

“Don’t let Hanssen fool you, he has the soul of a lion,” Ric says, his lips once more close to Bernie’s ear.

“What is the Eagle...Gulp?” Bernie asks, flanked on both sides by her housemates, feeling for the first time like there’s more for her here than just schooling.

“Drinking!” Ric roars, and Serena laughs, warm and soft, and Bernie can feel her shoulders move as they walk together.

“It’s a relay, of sorts. Who can drink more, fastest, all that.” She squeezes Bernie’s arm again. “Stories of you from Essex would have us believe you’ve got a liver of steel, Ms. Wolfe.” Bernie can’t help but smirk a little, then Serena’s words hit home.

“Stories of me? Who’s telling stories?” She halts their limping progress, and Ric turns to face Bernie, Henrik slowing his pace, joining them in their little cluster for the first time.

“Did you think you’d be living within a stone’s throw of the Crown Princess without a thorough background check?” Henrik asks, glasses perched on the end of his nose, looking supercilious.

“And did you think the rest of us weren’t nosy enough to dig in to what they found out?” Ric adds, getting another laugh from Serena, a quirk of the lips from Henrik.

“There was one story about climbing over a fence without your trousers on?” Serena ribs, and Bernie knows her face is an embarrassing shade of red.

“I started the climb with trousers on, in my defense. They just got...lost along the way.” They’d gotten tangled in the chain link; it was either face a formal reprimand or lose her denims to the night, and she’d chosen the latter. Serena’s laugh is enough to help ease Bernie’s worry, to make her comfortable once more.

The Gulp ends up a bit of a mess. They belly up to the bar, give their team name (“Royal Flush”) and are given a pitcher and four glasses. “Best of luck, mates,” the bartender says with a tip of the head, and Bernie marvels slightly at the way Serena’s allowed to exist outside of her royal status here.

She has noticed there’s a bit of a protective element at Downing about Serena. No one tells stories or gives out her grades, as if they’re honored Serena has chosen to study with them, as if they don’t want to betray the trust she’s given them. She knows a sizeable portion of the country is anti-monarchy, but when confronted with the reality of the person under the crown in front of them, the students seem to come together for her. Bernie thinks that’s probably indicative of someone who will be a good ruler.

“Mmm,” Ric hums, nodding his head in the direction of a slightly desperate looking girl making her way to their assembled group, “Clinger alert.” Henrik snaps to attention, smoothly intercepts her, takes her up to the bar, gets her settled out of Serena’s range. Bernie gives Ric a questioning look, clearly not the first time they’ve orchestrated something of this nature.

“We, ah, sometimes give out stories to people that try to get close to the crown, to see if they get out into the press. You see Roxanna over there is the reason the public think Serena has a terrible fear of horses.”

“It’s allergies,” Serena says defensively, scuffing her foot against the sticky floor of the pub. “Had to go for a long ride in the countryside with reporters just to get that story to die.” Bernie looks between the three people in front of her, eyes darting between their faces as she realizes just what is involved in being friends with Serena. It’s more than just spending time with her, it’s being a person that she can trust won’t betray her.

“Is that what swotty Serena was about?” she asks, looking straight into Serena’s eyes, suddenly wondering if they’ve had any genuine connection, or if it’s just all been a test up to this point. Serena just blinks, confirmation enough that Bernie’s assumptions are correct.

But Ric snorts, and Bernie can see that tilt of Henrik’s lips that’s as good as a laugh coming from him. The tension breaks a bit. “She’s a swot, true enough. Not much of a story for the paparazzi there, just the facts,” Ric says and Serena shoves him jovially, her palm against his shoulder, and Bernie feels a longing for that easy camaraderie.

Sharing seemingly endless pints of beer does force a sort of intimacy, Bernie thinks later, when Serena is leaning against her, heavy and drunk, and Bernie has to prop herself against a stool just to bear the weight.

They don’t win, not even with Bernie out-drinking one of the rowers, slamming her pint glass onto the table in a competitive euphoria, almost smashing the it in the process. “Easy there, Wolfe, don’t want to have to pay for damages,” Ric said with a grin, bumping her shoulder. “But nice work.”

Serena was their last entrant into the Gulp, up against a first-year, small and shy, and seemingly terrified to go head to head with the future of the monarchy. “Don’t worry, I won’t have you exiled if you beat me,” she said with a confidential head tilt towards her opponent, dropping a sly wink, and Bernie felt her heart flip over.

Serena let the young man win, a gallant show of sportsmanship that leaves the rest of Royal Flush grumbling. But Bernie can see how the first-year goes back to his team with a puffed chest, a look of pride about his face, and she thinks it was perhaps worth it in the end, can’t really hold it against her future queen.

“M’never drinking again,” Serena mumbles against Bernie’s shoulder, and Bernie laughs, the hooting noise escaping her lips before she can push it back down. Serena moves with a start, stares at Bernie with wide eyes. “Have I had too much beer or is that your laugh?” she asks, and Bernie feels her face flush.

“My dad laughs the same way. Genetics,” she says with a shrug, biting her lip, looking down at the floor, littered with coasters and napkins and tiny plastic straws.

“Like it,” Serena says, her words slurred together, and her head finds its place back on Bernie’s shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed, and Bernie can feel her lashes just brushing against her neck.

“Let’s get you home, your majesty,” Bernie says, hears a sleepy sort of affirmative mumble and slings an arm around her shoulders, begins the slow shuffle back to their house, Ric and Henrik trailing behind.

Sian is there when they return, sitting on the sofa with an unaffected air about her but Bernie gets the sense she was waiting for them, a magazine in her hands, a prop to give the illusion of busyness.

“Good time, lads?” she asks with a smile, before turning to Bernie and Serena, her eyebrow raised at their closeness, at the way Bernie’s fingers are anchored at Serena’s waist. “She let the other team win again, didn’t she?” Sian asks, “And still managed to get herself in such a state.” She reaches for Serena and Bernie feels suddenly possessive, that she wants to be the one to take Serena upstairs, her hand twitching ever so slightly against the hem of Serena’s shirt.

“It was my royal duty,” Serena says, her head popping up, and she grasps Sian’s extended hand, lets herself be pulled from Bernie’s hold, and Bernie feels the loss immediately.

“Of course it was,” Sian says. “Let’s get you to bed.” She pulls Serena towards the stairs and Bernie feels a pang, lets herself imagine pulling a blanket over Serena’s prone form, of gently touching her cheek, of telling her to call if she needs anything. But she lets Serena goes, knows that she isn’t that person, that she can’t be that person.

Bernie excuses herself, makes her own way up to her room, sits on the edge of the bed, waits for the room to stop spinning a bit before she lays down. Sian appears at the doorway. “Thanks for bringing her back,” she says in clipped tones, “but don’t think for one second you’ve earned the right to enter the royal bedroom.”

Bernie doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even have an answer. So she just nods blankly and waits for Sian to leave. There’s a long moment where they just stare at each other, and Bernie feels as if she’s being sized up, doesn’t know if she’s passing some test in Sian’s eyes. Then Sian nods, and leaves, graciously closing the door behind her, leaving Bernie alone.

Bernie sighs, lets her body slump back against the bed, doesn’t even bother pulling up her duvet, just falls asleep in her clothes, the smell of the pub on her body, the smell of beer on her breath, and the smell of Serena in her mind.

-

Bernie is a good student, she is focused and intense, gets good grades, even when she doesn’t put in the greatest effort. It’s not the best combination, and sometimes leads to laziness. And finding TV shows to binge watch. She’s developed a soft spot for competitive reality shows, finds it’s a way to turn off her brain, to let the night overtake her.

One night, with her anatomy text in front of her, a lined pad full of sloppily jotted notes off to the side, and she’s resting her chin on her elbows, elbows on her crossed legs, watching models compete in humiliating photoshoots.

“That’s your homework? I should’ve gone into medicine.” Bernie half-turns, sees Serena standing in the doorframe, wearing flannel bottoms and an old t-shirt, her hair in a messy ponytail. Bernie rubs at her mouth, knows a little drool has escaped her lips, and she thinks briefly that this will be a good tale to tell any future children she might have, the times she spent at university being an embarrassment in front of the Crown Princess.

“Just a distraction. Sometimes it’s all bit...boring. My brain needs more to focus on.” That’s the pat excuse she’s come up with, the one she uses to explain away her behavior, when it’s really just that she wants to escape from her mundane and bland reality, to laugh at people that aren’t her, to watch something that she doesn’t have to think about.

“Catch me up,” Serena says, coming into the room without an invitation, shutting the door behind her, and Bernie wonders if this is some sort of royal privilege, being able to walk into any room and not worry about being welcomed in, just expecting to be hosted. But Serena sits on the bed next to Bernie, their legs touching, shoulders bumping, and Bernie feels the tell-tale tingle at the touch.

“Not much to catch up on,” Bernie says, moving a bit, leaning against the wall behind her bed, and Serena scootches with her, stays close, leans in. “Models. Photoshoots. Arbitrary judging.” Serena laughs softly.

“This is bad news, I think, for nocturnal Serena.” Her chin brushes Bernie’s shoulder as her arm reaches out to adjust the screen of the laptop ever so slightly, adjusting it so she can see better. Bernie gets a whiff of a floral shampoo clinging to her hair, the soft brown strands tickling her cheek.

“Nocturnal Serena?” Bernie asks, turning her head, her face so close to Serena’s, she can feel her breath.

“I like anything that lets me turn off my brain for a minute,” Serena says, her voice soft, her eyes wide as she stares at Bernie. They hold the gaze for several long moments and Bernie thinks she forgets to breathe. It’s strange to hear her own thoughts echoed from Serena’s lips. “And then I just dive in. Never learned moderation, really. Not in this. Now hush, I want to hear.”

That’s how it starts, that simply. Serena knocks at Bernie’s door at least twice a week, usually more, all soft pajamas and mussed hair, and they watch TV shows late into the night, sometimes until the sun rises. On those days, there’s an extra coffee waiting for Bernie when she gets downstairs, her eyes puffy, her brain fuzzy. She takes it with her bookbag, only learns Serena isn’t the one leaving it when she walks down the stairs earlier than normal and sees Agent Ginger putting it out on the counter.

“Ah...thanks,” she says, with an attempt at a smile.

“Mum’s the word,” Ginger says, and Bernie thinks it’s silly she doesn’t know this woman’s real name, just watches her red ponytail bouncing as she goes up to the second floor, hears the knock on Serena’s door. She takes her coffee, and thinks it’s good there are people that watch out for Serena, especially when her nighttime alter-ego takes control.

This goes on for months. They work their way through seasons and seasons of television, and it becomes comfortable, good, and Bernie finds herself waiting for the knock on her door. She washes her sheets more often, sometimes makes an effort to tidy, wants to make things nice for Serena, tells herself it’s nothing more than wanting to impress the monarchy.

Serena doesn’t feel like a princess when her head droops against Bernie’s shoulder, when her own snoring wakes her up, her head bobbing up as she pretends she never dozed off, and Bernie never tells her different. She doesn’t feel like a princess when she reaches into Bernie’s lap for the bowl of popcorn, her fingers brushing Bernie’s thigh as she feels for the dish, and Bernie has to stop herself from shuddering, tells herself it’s the cold breeze, that winter is coming, that the rooms in the house aren’t well insulated.

And then there’s the night where they lay together on Bernie’s bed, bodies nestled close together to fit on the thin mattress, arms pressed together, feet almost tangling. And then Serena falls asleep, her head resting on one of Bernie’s pillows. And then Bernie falls asleep too, can’t help herself, the heavy exhalations coming from Serena a relaxing sound that lulls her into relaxation. She only wakes when there’s a knock at the door, sees that Serena has curled against her, head tucked under her chin, mouth pressed against her neck.

“Serena,” she whispers, doesn’t know who’s on the other side of the door, can see the sun peeking through her blinds, her laptop screen gone dark, knows they’ve been here all night. “Serena,” she says again, a little louder, her fingers brushing against Serena’s hand. “It’s time to wake up.”

It all feels so intimate and so foreign at the same time, and Bernie loves the way Serena looks when she wakes, her eyes soft and happy, and then she hates the way Serena looks when she realizes where she is, confusion crossing her face, and she pushes away, stands, opens the door where Ginger is waiting, her hand poised to knock again. “Time to be up, your majesty,” the bodyguard says, looking around Serena to see Bernie, still laying on the bed. There’s nothing illicit about what happened, nothing seedy or untoward, but still Bernie feels like she’s crossed a line she never meant to cross, feels a bit of judgment in Ginger’s eyes, thinks she’s failed somehow, that she’s not protecting Serena the way she might.

But there’s still a coffee waiting for her in the kitchen downstairs, and she gets a text message from Serena that says “thanks for the tv - see you later xx,” and Bernie feels both calmed and crazed by it all, wrong-footed and unsure, but knows she’ll let Serena into her room anytime she knocks.

-

The late night television stops, and Bernie throws herself into her studies with abandon, filling the void left by the loss of her nocturnal friend. She studies into the early hours, memorizes the the bones and joints and muscles, knows it like the back of her hand, like the _dorsum_ of her hand.

Bernie sees Serena less, sees everyone less. Ric sometimes pulls her out of her room, forces her to spend time with them in the evenings, card games or drinking, whatever happens to be on the menu that day. Sometimes Edward and his friend Marcus appear, to join in, no doubt some palace orchestrated drop-in, fueling rumors for days about Serena’s would-be beau.

Marcus seems to have developed a fascination with Bernie, along with an unwillingness to comprehend any of the hints and suggestions about Bernie’s sexual and romantic preferences. More often than not, he sits too close to Bernie, beer on his breath and a hand on her thigh, until she can’t take any more and excuses herself.

She thinks Serena sees, notices, thinks there’s an extra layer of tension about her on the nights when Marcus appears, and not even the sweet nothings whispered in her ear by Edward seem to appease her, relax her. Bernie doesn’t want to read into it, doesn’t want to overthink what it might mean. So she avoids the nights when Marcus is there, looks for Serena’s smile on the nights when she does join in.

“You’ve been blessed!” Ric says one afternoon, bounding up the stairs, his feet falling heavy, and bouncing into Bernie’s room, landing on her desk chair, slapping an envelope down over her notes.

“What’s this?” she asks, picking up the stationary, a heavy cream envelope.

“X-ray vision not working today, Wolfe? Your presence has been requested by the powers that be at the Queen’s most royal birthday party. You’re going to have to get a dress!” He looks practically gleeful and Bernie rips into the envelope, scrambles to a seated position as she stares at the invitation in her hand.

“Why me?” she asks, still in slight disbelief, though her fingers touch the slightly raised lettering embossed into the paper, her name made of loops and whorls, stark black against the blunt white.

“No time for existential mutterings, Wolfe. Just know you’ve made an impression on the crown princess.” Ric thumps her shoulder with friendly familiarity, though it barely registers as Bernie continues to stare at the paper in front of her.

Bernie winds up doing the thing she would least like to do: she goes to Sian for advice, knows that of any people in the house, she’s the mostly likely to have any sort of knowledge about what to wear. She bravely bares the criticism of her appearance, her messy hair, her lack of attention to detail, her rumpled clothes, Sian’s eyebrow raised all the while, her mouth in a smirk.

In the end, though, she comes out of it with the name of a shop, with instructions to get her precise measurements, that “the crown does not tolerate ill-fitting garments, Berenice.” Sian has taken to calling her by her full name, an extra dig, because she knows how it gets under Bernie’s skin, but it all seems a small price to pay for the lending of her expertise.

The dress she gets is dark blue, simple and, she’s told, elegant. It fits like a glove, sliding along her body as she slips into it, accentuating the barest hint of her hips, the slight swell of her chest. She wrangles her feet into a low pair of heels - Sian patently refused to let her out with flats on - and immediately knows she’ll be sore at the end of the night.

Ric ribs her good naturedly, pushes her bare shoulder with a laugh. “Never thought we’d see the day when Wolfe scrubs up. This is out of My Fair Lady!” Bernie rolls her eyes and wishes she could fidget with her hair, but it’s been pinned up in a twist, out of her face, nothing to hide behind, not even her fringe.

“Come on, then. I think it would be bad manners to be late to the party,” she says, uncomfortable with the attention, with her clothes, with the whole situation. They pile into the back of an old cab, at odds with their fancy attire, their posh get-up. Sian’s not with them, arriving with her parents, as some sort of royal protocol dictates. Bernie is just grateful she never has to think about the ins and outs of procedure and the rules that govern Serena’s life.

There’s a piano player and a string quartet, and the inside of the palace is fancier than Bernie even imagined. Lush carpets, ornate portraits, every surface gilded, every inch of the place screaming “royalty.”

Bernie and Ric snag flutes of champagne, Henrik skulking behind them, shrinking himself, and Bernie knows he sometimes is overly conscious of his height, doesn’t like standing out. She understands him, she thinks, knows of the urge to blend in.

And then she catches sight of Serena up on the dais, talking with her mother, her half-sister. Sian is there, flanked by an elderly couple that Bernie can only assume are her parents. But her eyes linger on Serena, taking in the beautiful light blue silk, the flaring skirt, how it makes her waist look slim, how her figure looks so inviting, so lovely. Her hair is pulled away from her face, her neck long and elegant, jeweled drops hanging from her ears, sparkling as she moves her head.

When she laughs, Bernie almost chokes on the champagne, Serena’s neck bent back, arched and beautiful, her face incandescent in her pleasure. Bernie can’t tear her eyes away, not even when Ric nudges her. It’s only when Sian steps in front of Serena, blocking her view, a pointed glance in Bernie’s direction, that she blinks, returns her attention to her friends.

“The princess is looking lovely tonight, isn’t she?” Henrik asks with a knowing smile, looking down his long nose at Bernie, who colors at the question.

“Hadn’t noticed,” Bernie mumbles, looking through her eyelashes up at the dais again, thinks she sees Serena looking down at her, thinks her face is flushing an even deeper red. Then Ric tells a joke and surprises a laugh out of Bernie, a honk escaping before she can clap her hand over her mouth to stop it up. It comes as the music fades out, the hall quieting, and Bernie desperately wishes for the floor to swallow her up.

There’s the gentle polite laughter of well-bred people who know someone has made a fool of themselves, and then everyone turns their attention to the podium, where Serena has arranged herself in front of the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to extend our gratitude for your attendance this evening. The Queen is never so happy as when her dearest friends and family gather together in celebration.”

The words aren’t Serena’s, the tone isn’t hers, the woman standing in front of the crowd is so far from the person that watches television squashed against Bernie’s shoulder and the disconnect almost takes her breath away, the effort it must take to be two such different people at all times.

There are more toasts, intermixed with the sort of awkward mingling that Bernie detests and she does her best to tune it out, to focus on Ric and Hanssen. Edward appears, later in the evening, sidles up to them with more glasses of champagne and Bernie tries to act as if she doesn’t detest him. She thinks she sees him winking at one of the servers, a petite girl with pretty red hair. It riles her a bit, she shuffles her feet in their small heels a little, almost twists her ankle.

“Easy there,” Serena’s voice says, her hand coming to cup Bernie’s elbow, warm, stabilizing, even as it makes Bernie’s heart flutter up into her throat, a swarm of butterflies threatening to escape her mouth.

She feels as if she’s lost her footing in every sense of the phrase, can’t decide if a curtsy is appropriate, or a bow, if anything is required of her in this setting, with the princess before her and not Serena. She bobs her head a bit, a tendril of hair loosing itself from the bun pinned at her neck, the blonde lock curling around her chin. She sees Serena’s eyes follow it, sees the twitch of her fingers, and then has to look away, the thundering of her heart loud enough that she fears Ric can hear it.

“You look lovely,” Serena says in a low voice, then blinks, as if she’s realized where they are, clears her throat and adds, in a louder voice, “All of you. So nice of you to get gussied up for Mum.” Never mind that her mum is the queen of the whole country, Bernie thinks. She’s never gotten this dressed up for her own parents, not once.

“Any excuse to scout the local talent,” Ric booms with a laugh, earning a few titters from a gaggle of young women behind them, no doubt royal cousins or some distant relative, cropped up for the occasion.

“I don’t think there’s anyone left you haven’t had your way with,” Serena says, an elbow to Ric’s stomach, and he stumbles with exaggeration, clutching his gut, making Serena laugh, and Bernie has to stop herself from staring again at that beautiful neck, at the glinting jewels sparkling against her pale skin.

“Wolfe here’s a bit of a hold out,” he says, when he’s stepped back into the group, his arm coming around Bernie’s shoulders, the familiarity of it like a brother, and it makes Bernie feel warm, accepted. “But I think she might be casting her eye elsewhere.” He says it lightly, like it’s a joke, but it makes a lump appear in Bernie’s throat, especially as this is the moment Sian appears, superciliary look on her face, like she knows what’s going on beneath everything.

“I’m going to go...champagne…,” Bernie stutters out, her hand waving a bit awkwardly as she fumbles for words. She ducks out from Ric’s arm and makes her way to the bar feeling a bit like she’s in a haze, like she’s been outed somehow, even if no one knew the truth of Ric’s words, of what lay behind it.

“All right?” Serena’s followed her to the bar, and Bernie can once more feel her hand on her arm, the cool skin that leaves a heated imprint, a shooting spark straight to her heart.

“Parched,” she offers weakly, a one word explanation because her vocabulary seems to have vanished.

“Make sure to say good-bye before you leave,” Serena says, and her hand drops from Bernie’s arm, but instead of going back to her side, she trails it up to Bernie’s face, catching the hair that fell earlier. She tucks it behind Bernie’s ear, her fingers gentle, warm, and Bernie knows her face must be flame-red.

“You do look lovely tonight,” Serena says again, and leans in to press a kiss to Bernie’s cheek before disappearing back into the crowd.

It only takes Bernie all of thirty seconds to bolt, to take a cab back to the house, not a word of farewell to anyone. She feels like Cinderella as she flees from the ball, as she shucks her finery and once more dons the clothes of a commoner. She hides her head under her pillow and just hopes for sleep to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Bernie goes home for the summer, glad for the end of the year, glad to be done with exams, to have time to sort through her thoughts, to have the space from everything. 

Not that space exists when Serena’s face screams at her from the cover of every tabloid, from the front page of every newspaper. Her comings and goings are national news and Bernie can’t ever escape. She finds herself lingering over the pictures where Serena’s smiling, happy, gets mad at the photos where she’s been ambushed, her mouth in a thin line, her eyes angry. 

It’s nice to be at home, to be around her parents, to find the familiarity in it all. Bernie makes herself a new routine, running in the morning, reviewing her notes in the afternoon, doing the washing up after dinner in the evenings. There’s a laziness, a tranquility, and Bernie luxuriates in it, feels good when her head hits the pillow every night, like she’s earned the rest.

The quiet peace is shattered, though, when she receives an invitation to spend a week of the summer at the McKinnie estate in Scotland. It’s a formal invitation, on thick paper, but Serena’s name has been signed, a loopy heart above the S, and Bernie knows she’ll be going. 

She thinks she’s found some sort of balance, acknowledging the very real spark she feels with Serena while also understanding the very real world they live in, one that wouldn’t allow the Crown Princess to be involved romantically with another woman. It has settled, lodged itself in the back of her brain, and she feels like she can manage it, survive it, maintain focus on being Serena’s friend, on being a part of her chosen group.

Her parents flutter a bit at the idea of their daughter going off to spend a vacation with royalty, and Ingrid Wolfe spends an unsuccessful half hour trying to teach Bernie the proper way to curtsy, the order for using silverware, and any number of other menial etiquette specifics, before Bernie pretends her phone is ringing and makes a break for it, spending the rest of the day outside of her home, away from any books by Miss Manners.

She packs a small duffel bag, unsure of what’s required for a summer week with a member of the royal family. In the end, she decides on a simple swimsuit, shorts and vests and t-shirts, thinks that if she’s required to wear day dresses and evening gowns, she’ll simply turn around and head home.

She makes a plan with Ric and Henrik to meet at the train station, to take the car to the house together, and she’s relieved she won’t have to knock on the door alone. She can’t help but break into a smile when she steps off the train and sees them, shouldering her bag and loping over, embracing them both with widespread arms, feeling their hands coming up to pat her back.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Ric says with deadpan sincerity when he pulls away, and Bernie’s eyes go wide as she looks up and down her own body, skinny denims, marginally unwrinkled shirt. And then he laughs, punches Bernie’s shoulder with roguish familiarity. “You’re fine, Wolfe, I’m joking. The queen never shows up at the house while we’re there, no need for royal frippery.”

A tension she didn’t know she was feeling leaves Bernie’s body and she thinks for the first time, she can relax. 

There’s a hired car waiting to take them to the manse, and Bernie enjoys the city scenery melting into the countryside, buildings blending into trees. They drive for minutes past nothing but open sky and green fields, and then, as if from nowhere, the regal McKinnie estate appears, large and imposing, but with a very welcoming figure standing in the drive, waving excitedly.

“You made it!” Serena enthuses as the three of them emerge from the car, blinking a bit at the sun. She hugs them each, and Bernie thinks she feels a slight squeeze to her arm before Serena moves away. “Your trip was smooth? No troubles?” 

“Just the boredom of waiting at the train station for this one,” Ric jokes, bumping Bernie’s shoulder, and she chuckles, looks down at the ground, scuffing her foot in the gravel of the driveway. 

“Come inside, come inside, I’ll show you the rooms - Ric, Henrik, you’ll remember from last summer?” She loops an arm through Bernie’s like it’s nothing, a gesture Bernie’s come to think of as familiar and unsettling all at once, making her insides shudder. Serena doesn’t seem to notice, just looks over her shoulder at the two boys.

“I hardly think you can expect us to have committed the floorplan of this estate to memory, Serena,” Henrik drawls, his lips slightly quirked, and Bernie feels Serena laugh against her. 

She points out paintings along the way, which room is what, where the loo is, the dining room, and Bernie’s head is spinning, from proximity to Serena, from the sheer amount of space she’s being exposed to, from all of it. Ric and Henrik peel off to their rooms as she points them out, and then they’re left alone, walking through the house.

“This is your room,” Serena says finally, opening the door to a smaller room filled with buttery, golden sunlight, a soft bed against the wall. “Sian’s just down the hall, she can direct you if you get lost. And then if you just turn left, there’s a door out to the back lawn and the pool. Take your time, explore, there’s nothing on the docket to worry about. Relax,” Serena says, a pat to Bernie’s arm, “This is a vacation.” 

She closes the door behind her as she leaves, and Bernie drops her small bag, isn’t even sure it’s worth unpacking, doesn’t feel worthy of using the fancy bureau opposite the bed. She wants to look around a little, be nosy, see the things she only caught flashes of as Serena moved them through the house.

Bernie pads barefoot around the halls, her toes sinking into the plush carpet. She peers in doorways, sees fancy sitting rooms, a large open space that she could easily imagine hosting a ball, the kitchen, full of stainless steel and shiny appliances. And then she sees a door that’s just slightly ajar, nudges it slightly more open with her hand. It’s a library, walls filled with shelves, books from floor to ceiling. 

She’s about to walk in, to immerse herself in the library, when she catches sight of Serena, curled up on a window seat, the sun coming in high and bright, catching her hair in its glow, dust motes filtering around her. _She looks like a Renaissance_ _painting_ , Bernie thinks, finds she can’t quite breathe for looking at her, dewy skin and pink cheeks, her hair soft, warm and brown, in waves around her face.

The moment breaks when Bernie puts her hand out to catch the door handle, and misses, knocking her wrist against the hard knob and muttering out a curse. Serena starts, catches sight of Bernie, and smiles, unfolding herself from the seat, feet touching the floor. “You found my favorite room,” she says. 

“Uh,” Bernie answers, realizes Serena’s just clad in shorts and a tee, that a person might never know of her royal lineage, of her royal destiny, if they just happened upon her on the street. She’s relaxed in a way Bernie’s never seen her at Cambridge, as if she’s in one of the few places she knows she’s with people she can trust with certainty. “It’s nice,” she manages, as Serena keeps looking at her with expectation in her eyes.

Serena laughs. “Yes, it _is_ nice. Come sit, find something to read - I doubt you fit a book in that tiny bag of yours.” Bernie flushes, but it’s the truth, she can’t deny it. There’s room on the window seat for them both to sit comfortably, but Serena moves in close, tucks her chin on Bernie’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Bernie. Wouldn’t have been fun without you this week.” 

“You would’ve had fun,” Bernie hedges, “Just maybe not as much.” She smiles, is happy to see the smile returned on Serena’s face and bumps her shoulder gently, making Serena rock slightly with the movement. 

“I love it here,” Serena says, moving away to lean her back against the window, tucking her bare toes under Bernie’s thigh, the smooth skin of her legs just brushing against Bernie’s arm. “One of the few places the press never comes, one of the places I remember happy memories with my dad.” 

Bernie knows about the tragedy of Prince George, the love of Adrienne’s life, gone too early, left too soon. Every year on the anniversary of his death, the newspapers are filled with photos, of a happy Serena in her father’s arms, their noses touching, of Serena holding her father’s hand and looking up at him with blatant admiration. 

“He would like that you’re making more happy memories,” Bernie says, though she never knew him, though she knows nothing about the loss of a parent. She just thinks it’s the right thing to say. She sees a little wetness in Serena’s eyes, but she nods, and stares out the window. 

Sian’s head pokes into the room. “Thought I’d find you here. The boys want to go swimming, if you’re up for it. I think they’ll do cannonballs whether you’re there or not, though, if you’re...in the middle of something. Hello, Berenice.” As always, it seems that she’s appraised the situation and got the gist of it in just seconds, her gaze wary and knowing all at once. Bernie crosses her legs, puts a little distance between their bodies. 

“No, a swim sounds lovely,” Serena says, standing, holding a hand out to Bernie, pulling her up. “Last one in is a rotten egg?” And then she’s off running, laughing, grabbing Sian’s arm and bringing her along, a wild and carefree Serena, and it makes Bernie’s heart stop, makes her take a minute before she even realizes what’s happened, that there’s a race going on.

She gets lost, several times, doesn’t know what route she took to get to the library, doesn’t know the easiest way back to her room, just hears the echo of Serena’s laughter in her ears. By the time she does pull on her bathing suit, she knows without a doubt that she’ll be the last one, is at least grateful to know how to get to the large pool on the lawn stretching out behind the house.

She drops her towel on one of the empty beach chairs arranged around the rectangular pool and watches for a moment, Ric and Henrik splashing around like giddy kids, Serena propelling herself along the water in smooth strokes, her body lithe, jackknifing through the pool. She pushes herself up against the concrete, water sluicing off her, the suit conforming to her curves. 

“Eyeballs in, Berenice. That’s your future ruler you’re ogling,” Sian says, coming up from behind Bernie, her voice somehow indulgent and also cold. 

“I wasn’t…..staring,” Bernie says, trailing off, knows she’s lying to Sian, knows she’s trying to lie to herself. She thought Serena was compartmentalized, thought she could handle this all, is starting to think that perhaps she can’t, that perhaps it’s all going to be a bit harder than she’d imagined. Serena is different here than she is anywhere else, a different person that Bernie can’t quite get into the small box where she’s shoved the rest of her attraction to Serena. 

Sian has lost interest, moves on, jumps into the pool, making a wave as she enters, splashing a spluttering Ric, and Bernie’s left alone on the sidelines.

“Last one in, Wolfe! You’re making dinner tonight!” Ric says.

“Those are the rules,” Henrik chimes in. “Hope you’re a dab hand in the kitchen.” He tosses a ball at Bernie and she catches it neatly in one hand, the water dripping onto her feet. 

“I just thought I was a rotten egg, I didn’t think there were further consequences,” she protests with a smile, sitting on the edge of the pool and sliding in feet first. 

“I’m afraid it’s a royal decree,” Serena says imperiously, and Bernie laughs, a loud honk that just makes them all laugh harder. 

“Hope you enjoy sandwiches,” is Bernie’s final word on the matter, and she throws the ball in her hand back to Henrik, catching him by surprising, nailing him with the soft missile in the shoulder. 

It’s an idyllic day, the most fun Bernie thinks she’s had in ages. She ends up falling asleep on her lawn chair, her nose pink when she wakes up, groggy from exhaustion and sun. “Dinner in half an hour, Wolfe,” Ric says when he sees she’s awake, and she squints at him. “The death glare has no effect on me. I’m a hardened soldier, been on the frontlines receiving that look for a year now.” 

Bernie’s peace is broken when Edward appears minutes after they all sit down with their cheese sandwiches, sliding a chair up next to Serena’s, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He makes himself comfortable, makes space for himself in a way Bernie’s never been comfortable doing. He even takes a bite of Serena’s sandwich, his mouth biting right over the notch made from Serena’s teeth moments earlier.

She makes an excuse to leave the table before everyone else, says she needs to lie down, too much sun, too much excitement, doesn’t miss the shared look between Ric and Sian, knows what they’re thinking, doesn’t even have the energy for denial in this moment. 

In the morning, she wakes up with the sunrise, puts on her swimsuit once more and tries to clear her head with easy laps back and forth in the pool, enjoying the quiet, the seclusion, the time with her thoughts. She gets the sense, at a certain point, that she’s being watched but shoves the feeling aside, swims two more lengths before pausing, and when she comes to a halt, she sees Serena standing behind a chair, watching, her mouth slightly open, curved into a smile, her eyes dark.

And then she shakes her head, as if she’s clearing something from her thoughts. “Today’s activity is croquet, Bernie, and I’ve already called you to be on my team. I don’t like to lose,” she says, pushing back from the chair. “Just came out to let you know. There’s breakfast in the kitchen when you’re ready.” Serena leaves the poolside, spares not one, but two glances over her shoulder at Bernie, but doesn’t meet her eyes, and Bernie doesn’t know quite what to make of it.

In the end, it’s a much more competitive game of croquet than Bernie anticipated. Ric and Henrik have matching jerseys, prepared from knowledge of last year’s game. Sian and Edward are forced together in the wake of Bernie and Serena’s partnership, and he spends more time offering to correct her stroke than he spends thinking about the game. Bernie’s only delight in that is watching Sian get progressively more irritated, steam practically pouring from her nostrils as she carries them through the course.

Bernie takes Serena’s directive seriously, focuses her energy on hitting the ball firmly with her mallet, with lining up the shots. “I’m just grateful you’re not making us use flamingos and threatening us with beheadings!” Bernie says when she misses a shot and hears Serena’s disappointment behind her. 

“There’s still time for that, if you keep missing,” Serena says with a wink, tapping Bernie’s rear with her mallet lightly, and if it were anyone else, Bernie would say she’s being flirted with. 

The game ends up close, all within a few shots of each other, a competitive tension hanging in the air, so when Bernie is able to hit the starting stake on her first try, Serena pulls her into a hug, yelling celebratory words that are muffled in Bernie’s hair. She topples Bernie, her exuberance catching her off balance, and they tumble to the ground in a pile, Bernie’s arms still clutching Serena to her, Serena’s hands bracing her up against the ground.

They stare at each other for a moment, then two, for too long, maybe, their faces so close, almost touching, Serena’s lips parted, so pink and light and Bernie feels like if something doesn’t happen to stop her, she’ll end up kissing Serena right there, that she won’t be able to help herself. But then Serena pushes up, rolls back on her knees. “I knew we’d make a good team,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “Next year, we’ll have jerseys better than Team Rik.” 

When Bernie stands, she sees the knowing look on Ric’s face, on Henrik’s face, on Sian’s face. Only Edward seems oblivious, hugging Serena and congratulating her on the good performance. Bernie sighs, rubs the grass from her rump and begins to pull up the wickets. 

-

Pulling up to the house on Lensfield Road feels like coming home to Bernie. She climbs the stairs to her room, the furniture where she left it, her sheets still on the bed, slightly rumpled. The house is filled with the little noises that come from living with other people, the quiet chatter of conversations, of food being made in the kitchen, of music playing behind closed doors. She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes in, breathes deep. 

The schoolyear starts more easily than the last, the routine already familiar, she’s not trying to learn a new campus while also trying to embed herself in her studies. She falls back into things with no hiccups, spending her late night hours in the library with her books, puts a little more distance between the goings on at her house. She sees Ric and Henrik around the Eagle, passes Sian going up the stairs, but for the most part, doesn’t see Serena, isn’t quite ready to admit how much she misses her.

Bernie shuts off the water in the shower and feels around for her towel, realizes she’s only managed to grab a glorified hand towel, something that’ll barely cover her torso. She gathers her shower basket, clutches the slippery bottles to her chest, and pokes her head out of the bathroom door, sees the empty hall, and makes a run for it. She misses the footfalls coming up the stairs, and it figures that the moment when she’d least like to run into Serena is the moment when they bump into each other, quite literally. 

She drops everything, her shampoo, her loofah, her towel, her hands coming up to cover herself, and she just sees Serena’s big brown eyes, warm and dark, her mouth open, and those beautiful lips pink and parted.

“I, ah, hope you had a good end to your summer,” Bernie stutters out, because she doesn’t know what else to say, standing stark naked in the middle of the hallway, facing the one person she’s been wanting to see and wanting to avoid in equal measure.

Serena seems to wake from a stupor as she laughs at the inanity of Bernie’s words. “However good it was, it’s hard to compete with this moment, Ms. Wolfe,” she says, smiling now, and Bernie can’t tear her eyes away from Serena’s mouth. Then Sian’s door opens, and Serena flushes, slides past Bernie, close enough Bernie could swear she feels a hand against her bare stomach, and disappears into her own room. 

“This seems a little desperate, Berenice,” Sian says, “There are far easier ways to go about things than becoming a nudist.” Bernie, feeling enough mortification to last a lifetime, scrambles to pick up her things, not caring what’s visible to Sian’s judgmental eyes, and slams her bedroom door behind her.

She doesn’t see Serena again until Halloween rolls around, a combination of Serena’s obligatory presence at royal events and Bernie’s busy school schedule. But on Halloween, she pulls on a white lab coat over a stolen pair of scrubs, and becomes the doctor she hopes to be one day. The Eagle is having a bit of a Halloween do, and Ric has threatened her under pain of death to show up, so she supposes she can put aside her books and studies for one evening. 

She sees Sian off in a corner with a someone dressed in American football gear, her hands resting on his shoulders, her hair falling winningly over one shoulder. Ric has his usual place at the bar, a pint waiting for Bernie and she sips it gratefully. “Not much imagination, is it?” he asks, looking up and down Bernie before adjusting his purple top hat. 

“Creativity wasn’t a requirement of my appearance here tonight,” she says, “besides, I rather feel that’s your department, Mr. Wonka.” Ric doffs his hat with great charm, and orders them two more pints. 

She sees Henrik, costume-less, though she expected nothing less from the stoic boy, and can’t lie to herself when she realizes she’s also scanning the pub for shiny brown hair, for sparkling brown eyes, doesn’t know how to ask about Serena without getting those knowing looks she’s come to despise. 

When Serena doesn’t appear, Bernie throws herself into dancing with reckless abandon, three pints of beer giving her the courage to let go, to be carefree, her arms flailing, her legs keeping no discernible rhythm, but she feels happier, freer, than she can remember. A skeleton comes up, dances beside her, next to her, their bodies jostled together, and Bernie thinks it’s not quite a bad way to spend an evening. 

When a song fades out, her skeleton friend lifts the base of her mask, which comes down over her chin, and Bernie recognizes the dimple immediately, the smiling mouth. “You’ve hidden yourself well,” she says. 

“It’s nice to be anonymous every once in a while,” Serena says, pulling the mask down to hide her face again. Her hand comes down to meet Bernie’s and she tangles their fingers together, pulls Bernie from the dancefloor. “Let’s get out of here,” she says, her voice high, a little breathless, and Bernie can’t imagine a world where she wouldn’t agree to that invitation.

They make it back to Lensfield, collapse on the couch in the front room and Serena pulls the mask off her face, cheeks flushed, hair mussed as it tumbles around her shoulders, and she makes quite a picture. “Sorry you’ve been pulled away from your studies for the evening,” Serena comments, pressed too close to Bernie, not close enough. “You’ve been busy this semester.”

So Serena has noticed the way they’ve missed each other, Bernie thinks, just offers up a shrug.

“You could...practice your anatomy,” Serena says, the words coming out in a jumbled rush. “I mean, you’ve a skeleton right here.” She pulls away from Bernie to recline back on the couch and points to the white outline of the bone on her arm. “What’s this called?” she asks. 

“The humerus,” Bernie answer.

“And this?” Serena’s finger moves, drawing a line across her chest, the white bone that cuts below her neck.

“The clavicle.” 

“This?” Now her hand rests between her breasts, her breath a little ragged.

“Sternum.” Bernie feels the heat of the room, the heat of her face, the heat of this moment. 

“This?” Her fingers trail up slightly, a small distance, but she even seems to know it’s a different bone, and Bernie wonders what anatomy she’s studied. 

“Manubrium.” 

Serena smiles at that. “Say it again.” 

“Manubrium,” Bernie repeats, drawing out the syllables, pursing her lips, and she sees how Serena’s eyes track the movement, how they never leave her face.

Serena pauses before moving her hand, looks at Bernie as if she’s trying to make up her mind about something. In a flash, it seems as if a decision’s been made and she sits up once more and grasps Bernie’s hand, places it against her own hip. “What’s this?” she says.

“Ilium.” Serna smiles, brings Bernie’s hand up to her face, sets her fingers against her jaw. “Mandible,” Bernie says, without prompting, and can’t stop her thumb from brushing against her skin, so soft, so warm. 

“Bernie,” Serena breathes, mirroring Bernie’s hand, her fingers coming up, the tips just touching at her hairline above her ears. They sit like that, still, twin chests heaving quiet breaths, and then Bernie leans forward, slides her hand into Serena’s hair, feels the beautiful heavy strands for the first time, and touches their lips together. 

Bernie can feel the slight intake of breath from Serena at the touch, but she doesn’t pull away, her hand tugging at the collar of Bernie’s lab coat instead, keeping her close. Their lips fit together well, and Bernie can even feel the slight pressure of Serena’s tongue, feels like she was made to kiss this person, loses herself in the moment.

“Vermillion,” Bernie says when they part, unwilling to move too far from Serena, whose eyes are closed, her lashes gently resting against her pink cheeks, more flushed than before. 

“What?” she asks, her eyes fluttering open, and Bernie feels her heart skip at the warmth she sees there. 

“That’s...that’s what it’s called,” Bernie says, moving her finger from Serena’s hair to gently touch the well-kissed flesh of Serena’s lips. “Vermillion zone.” Serena’s lips purse slightly, placing a kiss against the pad of Bernie’s forefinger. 

She leans in to kiss Serena once more when she hears the door bang open, hears the sounds of Sian and her football player in the kitchen, and drops her hands, feels Serena move away. Bernie suddenly doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be seen by Sian, doesn’t want this marred or ruined in any way. So she gives Serena a weak smile, reaches out to squeeze Serena’s knee, but aborts the movement, stands up instead.

“Better get back to….,” she starts, doesn’t know how to end it, and, for the first time in her life, feels like she’s running away from something when she goes up the stairs to her bedroom, pressing into her bed, dancing her fingers back and forth across her lips as she tries to remember the way Serena tastes.

-

Bernie dreams of Serena, of her soft lips, the way her body felt under Bernie’s hands, even with the fabric of her costume blocking the touch of skin, the way her lips tasted, her tongue. She wakes up with her teeth scraping against her own lips, trying to capture the flavor, an unconscious movement leftover from sleep. 

She doesn’t remember a time when she’s fallen this hard, felt this much, been so unable to do anything about it. She didn’t even look at Serena when she fled, doesn’t know what her face looked like as she left, but can imagine the big brown eyes, glittering with hurt.

She doesn’t see Serena for weeks, just the excuse of royal obligations, cutting ribbons and visiting orphanages and going to British sporting events, living a life Bernie could never dream of. She reminds herself that’s the life that comes with Serena, that’s the life Serena is expected to have, the life Bernie cannot be a part of.

Ric seems to notice that something’s changed, is a little softer, kinder to Bernie, doesn’t say a thing about Serena. Sian, if anything, seems to hate Bernie more. “You should’ve listened, Berenice,” is all she says the morning after Halloween and Bernie doesn’t even want to know what Serena told her the night before.

Henrik stays quiet about it all and Bernie simply assumes he knows everything but doesn’t want to invite conversations of an overly personal nature. She respects that, finds comfort in spending time with him where they only talk about schoolwork, the classes they’re taking, the professors they like. He’s in a business course and it all sounds so mundane and dull to Bernie, but he says he feels the same when she starts in on medicine and joints and all that.

Bernie thinks she catches a glimpse of Serena’s brown hair flipping around the corner when she leaves a coffee shop, spends ten minutes following a pretty brunette before she realizes it’s just a stranger, is glad she didn’t do anything more than trail five feet behind, phone in hand to look preoccupied.

She understands needing space, having time apart, doesn’t blame Serena for wanting some distance, but she doesn’t like being avoided, doesn’t like feeling as though Serena’s mad at her. She can’t decide, though, if this is how it always is and she’s just more aware, or if Serena’s changed her behavior, if she’s trying to make the separation more permanent, more real.

She tries to put everything out of her mind, to tell herself that Serena is now a thing of the past, but it’s hard, when her closed door acts a reminder every night when Bernie goes up to bed.

It’s late one evening, during the middle of the week, and Bernie is practically the only one in the library, her desk lamp casting a pool of light around her. She’s grown to like the quiet.

There’s a rustle of movement behind her, but she doesn’t look up, rereading the same line about the splenic artery again, using her finger to underline the words. 

“Bernie,” her name is hissed, and she looks over her shoulder, drops her pen when she sees Serena standing there, looking a little sheepish, wearing a large sweatshirt with the hood over her head. She looks past Serena, sees Agent Ginger sitting at a table, reading through a book as though she hasn’t a care in the world.

She focused back on Serena, who’s pushing the hood back, runs a hand through her hair a little self-consciously. “Can I sit?” she asks, her voice a little above a whisper. Bernie nods, knows there’s no one around to hear them, the librarian is at her desk near the entrance, any student pages off shelving and not around the study carrels.

Serena slides a chair out from the desk, moves it so she’s closer to Bernie, their knees just touching. She rests her hands on her thighs, rubs them back and forth a little and for the first time, Bernie thinks she’s nervous.

“Taking a medical elective?” she asks, because she doesn’t have a better opener, because she doesn’t know why Serena’s here.

“Not...no. Can’t let the public know that I’m absolute rubbish at science,” Serena says, her face relaxing into a smile and Bernie feels the flutter in her heart.

“I wanted to see you,” Serena adds, her hands fidgeting once more. “Maybe to talk?” Her voice lilts like a question, wavering and uncertain.

“We can talk,” Bernie says, a little wary, pushing her books away, turning more fully to look at Serena. “If it’s about Halloween, I just...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. We can just forget it.”

Serena’s eyes widen a little, her back stiffening. “I, ah...” she begins and then trails off.

“You’ve been avoiding me, you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin right now. Let’s just...confine it to Halloween, what’s past is past.” Bernie clenches her own hands as she says the words she knows she’s supposed to say, the words that will make this whole thing easier for Serena, the words that hurt her as they leave her mouth.

Serena’s hands stop fidgeting and Bernie can see on her face the decisive tilt to her chin that means something is about to happen. Her fingers come out to grasp Bernie’s hand, squeezing slightly. “Bernie,” she says softly, “I don’t...that’s not...I don’t want to forget it.”

Bernie’s eyes snap to meet Serena’s, understands the words she said, but can only see the tears that are gathering at her eyelashes. “What?”

“Halloween was...a culmination,” Serena says. “I...I’ve never been more than friends with a woman and this scares the life out of me.” She bites her lip and Bernie’s eyes follow the movement, wishing she were the one to scrape her teeth against Serena’s lips.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just Halloween that spooked you?” Bernie asks lightly, trying to get a laugh out of Serena, counts the half-hearted chuckle as a win.

“Oh, I like you, Bernie. I _like_ you. And...and I can’t. I’m supposed to find a nice man who can be a prince and get me pregnant and make an heir. I can’t be with the beautiful blonde who sets my skin on fire, no matter how much...how much I might want that.” The tears that have built up start to trickle down Serena’s cheek and Bernie can’t stop herself, pulls her hand from Serena’s and catches the tears with her thumb, wipes at the smooth skin of her face.

“You think I’m beautiful?” Bernie asks, her voice shaky and she thinks she might end up crying too. Serena nods against her hand, turns slightly to press a kiss to her palm, and Bernie has to close her eyes at the sight, knows this is something she won’t be able to stop herself thinking about every day.

Her eyes are still closed when Serena moves in to kiss her, those lips just as soft as she remembered, just as familiar, just as lovely.

The kiss is salty, wet, and far too short, and when Serena pulls away, she just looks sad and Bernie doesn’t know how to fix it, doesn’t think she can, feels a tightness around her heart because of it.

“We can be friends,” Serena says, like a promise. “We can’t lose that.” 

She touches Bernie’s cheek, drops her hand to Bernie’s fingers and gives her another squeeze. “I’ll see you back at the house, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Bernie says, her voice soft, and she feels like she’s talking from a million miles away. Serena leaves, looks over her shoulder once, then turns back to the door, Agent Ginger following, one comforting squeeze to Serena’s shoulder before her hand drops, once more putting respectable distance between herself and her charge. Bernie pulls her books back towards her, picks up her pen, taps it against the desk once, twice. “Friends,” she says to herself. “Not a problem.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating bumped to a light M!

Time passes, her third year of school continuing, and Bernie does her level best to maintain a friendship with Serena. They go to the Eagle together, but only when accompanied with the boys of the house. They watch TV in the evenings but never sit on the same couch. There’s an invisible boundary between them, and Bernie does her best to respect it, even tries dating around, never makes it past drinks with anyone else. Most of her would-be paramours just ask what it’s like to live in the same house as the Crown Princess, and Bernie can’t bear to answer that question, tries to pretend she lives with anyone else most days.

The one place they allow themselves to be alone is in the same library where the decree absolute on the friendship was given. Bernie has made the small study carrel her home away from home, and Serena has taken up residence beside her. They study in silence most days, Serena sometimes passing over a snack, always aware Bernie never remembers to bring her own. They’ve started to pass notes, having been chastised for their low conversations on more than one occasion, and Bernie saves the scraps of paper in the sleeves of her folder, little fragments of hope that make her heart beat a little faster.

On a Tuesday evening, where Bernie is looking through her books on gross anatomy, Serena drops a heavy book on the history of European political theory on the desk, making a loud booming noise that makes several heads pop up and look towards the sound.

“Bad day?” Bernie whispers, eyeing the book that looks like it could alone be responsible for the chiropractic needs of the entire History and Politics course.

“I have a test on Friday, but my presence has been requested at the reception for the King and Queen of Denmark on Thursday. So I’m studying now.” Serena doesn’t often complain about the frippery that comes with being a princess, or the obligations of her royal life, but Bernie sees it every now and again, how it weighs heavily on her, sees how much care she puts into her studies, how much she wants to be a good queen to the people of England, no matter the onus it puts on her. How she’s put the country ahead of herself, time and time again.

Bernie makes a sympathetic hum in the back of her throat, and turns back to her books. This isn’t the sort of problem she can solve, the sort of thing she has any experience navigating.

“Come with me!” Serena’s voice is excited and too loud, and again, heads turn in their direction. Bernie flushes at the attention, at Serena’s words. It seems like it might flirt with the carefully set rules they’ve put in places. 

“I mean it,” Serena says, lowering her voice, “it’ll be more bearable if you’re there, Mum always allows friends to come along. Edward will be there too, and it will just be...nice.” She seems to lose steam at the end, her excitement at the prospect of inviting Bernie outweighing her ability to form a persuasive sentence.

“I’ll go,” Bernie says, knows she can never really deny Serena anything, not when her eyes look so happy, her cheeks flushed and dimpled. “Can’t believe I’ll have to get another ball gown.”

Serena smothers a laugh at that. “Borrow one of mine, I’m sure there’s something in my closet that will fit, and it’s not like I’m ever allowed to wear things more than once.” She rolls her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. “Now let me bury my head in this book, and we’ll talk more later. I’m just... Thanks for agreeing to come, Bernie. I mean it, it’ll make it so much better.” She reaches out to squeeze Bernie’s fingers quickly, too quickly for Bernie to react, and then turns back to her thick tome, pencil between her lips as she reads, and Bernie can only smile a fond smile before turning back to her own studying, knows she is, once again, in over her head.

On Thursday, Bernie and Serena are whisked away from campus in a long black car with tinted windows. “Why isn’t Sian coming?” Bernie asks as they wend through the streets of Cambridge before heading onto the M11. Bernie settles in adjusting her overnight bag in her lap, the hour drive necessitating a night spent at the palace before an early drive back in the morning.

“She begged off for the night, she’s got the same test I have and doesn’t have the same pressure from her mother to go to things like this,” Serena says, her history book open in her lap, studying as they go. “The Danes didn’t think of the academic calendar when they scheduled their visit.” She says it so dryly that it makes Bernie half-honk with laughter.

The drive seems faster than Bernie thought it might. She ends up quizzing Serena on philosophers, making up quotes to throw her off, earning peals of laughter that make her heart flit about her chest. When they pull around the back of the palace, Bernie is led in through a back entrance to the palace, away from cameras and paparazzi. Agent Ginger shadows them as they walk through a heavy wooden door, then lets them move ahead, without her presence. 

“Come on, just up the stairs,” Serena says, grabbing Bernie’s hand and bringing her along. Bernie only hopes her heartbeat can’t be felt through her palm because it’s thundering in her chest at the feel of Serena’s hand in her own.

Serena’s dressing room is everything from a storybook about princesses, voluminous dresses and colorful skirts. There’s a pale pink dress hanging in front of a three-way mirror, a necklace, tiara and earrings put out on her dressing table. Serena pulls a face in the mirror so Bernie can see and then begins to rifle through her closet, as if she’s looking for something specific.

“Here it is,” she says, emerging with a green dress, light and beautiful, and Bernie can only think how well it complements the one Serena will be wearing tonight. She holds it up to Bernie with a critical eye, then nods decisively.

“I’m supposed to have a dresser come in to help me with all of this, but I told Mum that you could help instead - you don’t mind, do you? I always hate having someone I barely know zip me up and all of that.” Bernie is struck once more at how Serena seems to just barely tolerate the parts of her position that are silly necessities, how she never seems to give into the frivolity of it.

“I don’t mind at all,” Bernie says, taking the green dress from Serena and laying it out on the low sofa. Serena shoots her a shy smile and then unzips her trousers, pulls her jumper off over her head, and Bernie casts her eyes down. She knows what it means to help Serena dress, but the realities of it are harder to bear. She can see the rosy flush of Serena’s skin, that pale expanse she just caught a glimpse of before looking away.

She can hear the rustle of fabric as Serena slips into the dress, bites her lip as she stares down at her toes. 

“Bernie? My zipper?” Serena’s voice is soft and Bernie has to swallow, hopes it isn’t too audible.

She moves behind Serena, her face visible above her shoulder and is struck by their reflection in the mirror. Serena’s hands are holding up her brown hair, keeping it out of the way of the fasteners, her face looks shy and vulnerable, bare of makeup. Bernie’s face is flushed pink, her mouth slightly parted, her lower lip a bright red from where her teeth have worried it.

She blinks and looks down at the zipper, fumbles with it slightly, then pulls it all the way up Serena’s back, closing the vee of the dress, her fingers just grazing against Serena’s skin, like some kind of glorious torture, giving tactility to her nighttime imaginings.

“All set,” she breathes softly, and Serena lets her hair fall in soft waves, the scent of her floral shampoo filling Bernie’s nostrils and she has to make herself take a step back.

“Your turn, and then I’ll do something with your hair.” Bernie touches her wavy mop, curls she’s never really been able to do anything with, slightly self-consciously, and Serena turns, takes Bernie’s hands away from her head. “I just meant brushing it. I like your hair very much.” Bernie nods, pulls her hand from Serena’s grasp gently, using her now-free hand to touch the silky fabric of the green dress, all gauzy and floaty. It almost seems too lovely for her.

She hastily sheds her own clothes before she can talk herself out of anything, keeps her back to Serena so she won’t have to see those dark, shimmering eyes until she’s fully clothed. The dress slips over her shoulders smoothly and falls easily over her body, the skirt flowing and loose around her ankles.

When she does finally look towards the mirrors, Bernie can see the look of want in Serena’s eyes just before her gaze darts away. She recovers by bustling behind Bernie and fiddling with the zipper, with the small clasp that meets at the top of her spine. “It’s perfect,” Serena says, “I knew it would be.” 

Her hands rest lightly on Bernie’s shoulders, slide down her bare arms, and then she moves away. “I’ll find you a wrap before we go down, the ballroom can get drafty.”

The rest of their preparations go swiftly, Serena putting on the jewels and adornments required of this sort of social engagement. She even talks Bernie into a little makeup, lipstick and mascara, swipes blush across her cheeks. Bernie colors at the attention, finds it’s even worse when Serena begins to brush her hair, but wouldn’t stop her for all the world, finds a sort of soothing tension as Serena’s hands move with the bristles, smoothing the strands into tidier waves. 

All the while, she can never take her eyes off their reflections, Serena in all her regal finery looking down at Bernie’s hair like it’s solid gold, the rose pink of her gown beautiful against the light celery of Bernie’s. It’s a picture, a moment Bernie knows she’ll remember forever.

-

Bernie wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, silken sheets, plush mattress, canopies blocking the sun from her eyes. It takes a moment, but she remembers where she is, tucked in bed in one of the guest rooms at the palace. It seems almost unreal, but everything about her life in the last twenty-four hours has been a bit surreal. 

She’d met Marjorie, a slightly more relaxed version of her older half-sister, easier smiles, louder laughs. The result of growing up royal without the weight of having to rule. “You must like her,” Marjorie said, “to go through this pomp and circumstance, when she barely is allowed to talk to anyone not up there on the dais.” 

Bernie colored at the insinuation, always conscious of what other people see in her friendship, her relationship to Serena. “We’re good friends,” was all she said in return. Marjorie smiled politely, sipped at her champagne, turned to talk to someone else, a practiced, curt dismissal. Bernie used her distraction to look at her, take her in. 

She’s four years younger than Serena, born after Prince George died, a scandal when the young widowed queen announced her pregnancy. But the public was forgiving, understanding of their ruler’s grief, softened at photographs of a young Serena pressing a kiss to her mother’s rounded belly, at the official press release showing Serena holding her new baby sister, Adrienne’s hand resting on her shoulder. “A Matriarchy is Born,” the headlines read, and Bernie remembers her mother telling her about them, how hopeful it felt to have a line of women to rule them. 

Bernie’s attention is drawn away as fanfare begins, announcing the arrival of Serena and her mother, the two of them always choosing to walk into formal events together, a bond shared between mother and daughter, between queen and princess, never leaving the other alone. 

Serena looked beautiful, but Bernie knew that. There’s a different aura about her when she’s standing in front of her people, when she’s wearing the mantle of her role, and Bernie couldn’t tear her eyes away. Edward was introduced shortly after, coming up beside Serena, holding his arm out for her, handing her champagne. 

When Serena was able, she broke away from Edward, from her mother, from their royal guests, and found Bernie. She even managed to coax Bernie into a half waltz in the back of the room, away from most of the prying eyes, though their laughter kept them from really keeping up with the steps. Bernie made an admirable attempt at leading, her hand on Serena’s waist, but couldn’t resist the slightest tickle at her hips, which sent Serena into further convulsions. 

The sound of noisy gaiety brought attention back to them, and Bernie dropped Serena’s hands, put distance between them, pretended there was something quite interesting in the back corner of the ceiling that she needed to stare at. Edward appeared as if drawn by a magnet and pulled Serena back into the crowd, leaving Bernie alone once more.

Bernie turns her head to hide in the pillows, feels slight embarrassment about how she acted the night before, about their dance, about how close they were. She can remember their heads tilting together as Serena quietly whispered that she’d rather be spending the night at Bernie’s side than anywhere else, how those soft words made her heart stutter, her nerve endings burn. 

There’s a knock at her door that makes Bernie sit up. It’s a firm rapping that doesn’t sound anything like the friendly sort of tap that she’s known Serena to do in the past. “Bernie?” It’s Serena’s voice on the other side though. “Bernie, we have to head back.” Her tone is clipped, sharp, and Bernie throws the covers off, moves to the door, but by the time she’s opened it, she can only see Serena’s retreating back. 

The ride back to Cambridge is stilted, awkward, and Bernie’s attempts to make conversation are rebuffed. She tries to think what she might’ve done wrong, what’s changed in the last two days to make Serena act this way.

It’s not until they get back to the house and Serena disappears upstairs that Bernie gets her answer. Sian’s waiting in the living room, arms crossed, the morning newspaper in front of her. “You had a busy evening, Berenice. You might want to be more careful with Serena in the future.” She slides the paper to Bernie. 

On the front page, in full color, is a picture of Serena, in all her beautiful finery, her eyes happy, her mouth smiling, and her head is bent, tilted slightly to catch the words being said to her, words from Bernie’s lips, because Bernie is also pictured, and the look of love, of fondness, that is emanating from her eyes makes Bernie’s throat constrict. The picture looks intimate, as if they were caught in a private moment, not as part of a crowd in a ballroom filled with people. Serena’s fingers are almost touching Bernie’s, Bernie’s lips are close to Serena’s ear, and as if that’s not all bad enough, there’s the headline, in stark black, that reads “Serena’s Sapphic Sojourn?”

Some reporter remembered the green dress, pulled a photo of Serena in it, uses the fact that Bernie’s been lent the same gown as proof of something, uses the photographic evidence of their intimacy at the previous night’s event to further the argument. Bernie skims the article, sees the reporter was industrious, busy, finding dalliances in her past to interview, wonders how long this story’s been building. 

Bernie wants to crumple the paper, wants to burn it, but can’t quite bring herself to do any damage to the photograph on the front page. As much as she hates what it might do to Serena, she can’t help but love the image of the two of them, a vision of what could be, if things were simpler. 

She hazards a look at Sian, is surprised to see that it’s not judgment in her eyes, but pity. “Maybe Serena needs to be gentle with you,” she says, her hand moving, like she’s going to pat Bernie’s shoulder, but she doesn’t, and Bernie doesn’t know what to say, feels like she might cry, like she might burst, so she beats a hasty retreat to her own room, thinks she might not emerge for days, for weeks, thinks she just wants to harden into a cocoon until she can withstand the world that has just been created. 

She doesn’t see Serena for a week, is avoiding her just as much as she knows she’s being avoided. Bernie keeps her head down at classes, hears the tittering giggles, suspects the tabloids have made their way through the student population of Cambridge. She doesn’t look at them, doesn’t read them, doesn’t want to know what other tidbits of her life have been dredged up for the entertainment of the gossipy public. Her mother calls, says reporters have been hanging about, and Bernie can’t do anything but apologize. 

She goes to class and back to the house, doesn’t go anywhere else, doesn’t want to see anyone. Sian, Ric and Henrik all make vague attempts at trying to draw her out, but Bernie resists, surprised as she is, especially by Sian’s attentions, and stays behind her closed door, nose in her books. 

On Friday evening, after a full week of living under a spotlight, under a microscope, Bernie declines invitations to get sloshed at the Eagle, first from Ric, then from Henrik. Sian doesn’t try to get Bernie to go anywhere, just slides an American magazine that doesn’t have any mentions of British royalty under her door, and Bernie feels the most grateful for that.

There’s a knock at her door when she’s deep into a story about Anne Hathaway, and Bernie almost wants to yell at whoever it is to go away, but reminds herself that no one deserves her anger, that she’s brought this situation onto her own shoulders. She opens the door and sees a rather tentative, sheepish looking Serena on the other side. 

“Hi Bernie,” she says, her voice quiet, almost shy. “Thought you might be here still. The rest have gone out for the night.” Bernie steps aside to let Serena in, and they sit awkwardly on her bed, farther apart than they ever have before. 

“How are you...how are you doing?” she asks, because she doesn’t know what the right thing to say is, doesn’t know quite how to apologize for embroiling Serena in a seedy sort of scandal. But Serena smiles, shrugs, and Bernie feels her heart ease a bit. 

“I’m all right. Mum’s furious, of course.” Bernie’s eyes leap to Serena’s face, and Serena shakes her head, “Not about...that. She wants to know who sold the photo. They’ll be banned from all future events for certain.” Bernie nods. “How are you? First time in the national spotlight? Can’t be easy.”

“They’ll forget about me soon enough, I’m sure,” Bernie says, though all she can think about is the way their faces looked together on the front of the newspaper, how close her lips were to Serena’s soft skin, even though she can’t remember for the life of her what she might’ve been saying. 

“I won’t forget you.” The words, spoken so quietly, almost inaudibly, but Bernie hears them all the same, looks at Serena. “I don’t want to...forget it.” She shrugs again, the indecision somehow appealing when it comes from Serena’s shoulders. 

“What?” is all Bernie can manage. Serena smiles, moves closer to Bernie, rests her hand on Bernie’s knee, squeezes ever so slightly. 

“The only thing I do want,” Serena says, her body coming even closer to Bernie, their legs touching now, “is you.” It’s nothing like the last time they kissed, it isn’t sad, it isn’t forlorn. It’s hopeful, heated, with the promise of something more. When their lips part, Serena doesn’t move far, rests her forehead against Bernie’s. 

Bernie says nothing, just breathes in the scent of Serena, lets her hand thread into Serena’s hair, feels like she’s allowed this, now, she’s allowed to touch, to feel, to want. She kisses Serena’s nose, her cheek, her jaw, and then her lips again, captures them, slides her tongue between them, and Serena is a ready recipient, softly humming approval. 

They lay in Bernie’s thin bed, bodies pressed together, and Serena seemingly can’t stop her fingers from dancing up and down Bernie’s side, and even when Bernie catches her hand, she can’t stop exploring the divots of Bernie’s palm, holding her hand like it’s magic, like she’s finally letting herself go after the thing she wants. 

“I think...I think I’ve always wanted you,” Serena says in a hushed tone, like she’s scared to say it out loud, like she’s barely ready to admit it to herself, let alone someone else. “I think I’ve always wanted girls - women. But...but you make me sure of it.” She noses against Bernie’s cheek, her own face hot against Bernie’s skin. 

“I’ve always wanted you,” Bernie says, braver than she feels, letting the words loose into the room like a balloon with the air let out of it. “That first moment with you in those tiny shorts and that ratty old sweatshirt. Didn’t even know who you were.” Serena stills, pulls away just slightly to look at Bernie. 

“Really? Didn’t recognize your future queen?” Her tone is imperious, but her eyes are dancing as she leans in once more to kiss Bernie, their mouths moving together sweetly, easily, her tongue darting between Bernie’s lips, and it all feels so perfect that Bernie can’t quite believe her luck, that she should get to do this, that Serena should want to do this with her.

Bernie wants to ask her what it means, what’s in their future, even as she’s scared of the answers, of what Serena will say. Instead she listens to Serena talk of a field hockey coach with blonde hair that caught her attention, of a girl in her first form that made her stomach flutter. “Nothing like with you, though,” Serena says shyly, and Bernie’s finger goes under her chin, tilts it up so she can’t hide her eyes. 

“It’s not that I don’t want Edward, or that I’m not interested in men too. I just, there’s nothing that compares to what I feel with you, even when all we’ve ever done is this,” Serena adds, looking at Bernie with such frank honesty, her face pale in the low light of the evening, freckles dotting her nose, free of the makeup she normally wears. Bernie’s heart aches at it all, even as she blushes at the compliments. 

Serena stands from the bed, pulls Bernie up, their hands fitting together like puzzle pieces, completing each other in a way Bernie didn’t know someone could. She gives Bernie a goodnight kiss, long and lingering, pressed against her door, hands roaming, hips thrusting ever so slightly, the air between them charged, heated.

“I have to go now, or I won’t at all,” she says when she finally catches a breath, and Bernie doesn’t quite take it as the incentive she thinks Serena means it to be. 

But she lets Serena go, watches her walk down the hallway, hears her door, then Agent Ginger’s door close in quick succession, and falls back into bed. For the first time in a week, she sleeps soundly through the night.

-

There’s an idyllic haze to the last few months of the schoolyear, it feels almost perfect. Bernie spends her time in classes, in practicums, and when she’s not stuck with her nose in the books, she’s pressed up against Serena. They spend late nights together in Bernie’s room, watching TV shows, leading to heated snogging, and Bernie finds her hand sneaking beneath Serena’s jumper on more than one occasion, but they never go further, always stopping at an implicit line they both seem to understand.

Bernie’s room undergoes an inspection from Agent Ginger, whose actual name is Sarah, to make sure it’s a safe enough space to house the princess for extended hours. Bernie gets a direct line to the bodyguard’s phone. She’s given a panic button. She never asks if these measures come about by word from the palace, or if the agent is doing these things unofficially, offering her tacit approval of their activities. 

Sian curbs her comments about how unsuited Bernie is as a potential suitor to the crown princess, and Serena tells Bernie privately later that she’d been the recipient of a royal talking-to. “Although,” she says, trailing her fingers up Bernie’s side, “I did always like how your full name sounds.” She nuzzles their noses together, and whispers, “Berenice.” It makes Bernie shudder into the kiss she places against Serena’s lips. 

It seems too good to last, really, and Bernie keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does. Every night, there’s a knock on her door, and every night, she spends her evening with Serena. Some days they just spend their time studying, legs overlapping in a pile of limbs. Serena will read aloud an excerpt from her book in her low, irresistible voice, or Bernie will name every bone in Serena’s hands, her lips ghosting along, following her didactic finger. 

Once, Ric bangs on the door and yells “Hand check!” before pushing the door open and demanding they come out to the Eagle for the evening. They keep their distance in public, just alluring gazes across crowds, and somehow it makes the whole thing better, more exciting, much preferred to the alternative, all eyes on them and reporters waiting to snap the perfect picture of the two of them together. 

Bernie has plans to travel with her family for the summer, promises to make it back for the week in summer when Serena’s secured the country estate for her friends. “You could come for a few days before...so it’s just us?” Serena’s coaxing tone is impossible for Bernie to say no to, not when she’s tangling their fingers together, holding their hands aloft as she looks up at the webbing of their palms pressed together. 

Their last night together is quiet, exams done, no studying in the foreseeable future. They lay together on Bernie’s bed, and Bernie suddenly realizes she’s never seen the inside of Serena’s room, says as much. In response, Serena pulls Bernie up and they walk down the short hallway. She opens her door, and Bernie sees a room much like her own but far, far neater. “Yes, I do pick up my clothes at the end of the day. Nice to see the floor every once in a while,” Serena says, following Bernie’s train of thought without effort. 

Bernie bumps her hip against Serena’s. “I have a floor, too. I think.” Serena laughs and pulls Bernie down to her own bed. It’s the same, but different all at once, the bed in a different place, their positions reversed from the usual, but Serena still feels the same pressed against Bernie, their bodies spooned together. 

“I’ll miss you,” Bernie whispers, when she thinks Serena’s fallen asleep, running a soft hand through the strands of her hair, pushing them back from her cheek. Then Serena’s eyes flutter open and she looks up at Bernie, her gaze honest, piercing, lovely. 

“I’ll miss you too, Berenice Wolfe.” Serena cranes up for a kiss, arching her beautiful neck. “You’d better write.”

“I will,” she promises, arms going around Serena’s back, holding them together until they both fall asleep. 

-

Bernie loves traveling, she loves seeing new places. She’s at ease enough in her skin that she seems at home wherever she goes, it’s a trait that she’s most proud of. She meets a soldier on leave while she’s in Greece, a doctor with the RAMC, and for the first time in a long time, she feels inspired, thinks there’s perhaps a future for her outside of working for the NHS, something that excites her more than routine check-ups and the drudgery of A&E. 

She only sees the army doctor once, but it’s enough that she begins to research what it might mean to join the RAMC, looks things up on her phone, spends nights on her laptop, sees the future unfold before her, imagines trauma surgeries in the desert, the sand swirling around her feet. She dreams of a heroic future where she saves lives and gets known by her rank, her prowess. 

When she mentions it in her letters to Serena, she can’t keep her effusiveness off the page, but notices Serena’s recalcitrance towards the idea in her response. They’ve never discussed their futures, never talked about what comes next, when they leave the safety of a school that protects them from the press and reporters and photographers. Bernie thinks the idea of her off on another continent is giving Serena pause. The idea is nice, to be so wanted by another person that to be far away seems intolerable, but the idea also makes Bernie’s skin crawl a bit, having to worry about Serena’s feelings, to be under someone else’s thrall and not entirely able to make her own decision. She’s always rebelled against that concept. 

She only writes one more letter before heading back to England, before boarding the train to the McKinnie summer estate, just scrawls quickly that she misses Serena, can’t wait to see her, and knows they may have to talk about things more serious than whose turn it is to make lunch when they’re together in person.

“Gosh you’re tan,” Serena says when she greets Bernie at the door a week later and pulls her into a hug, breathes in Bernie’s hair, holds her close. Bernie’s eyes fall shut, the smell of Serena filling her nostrils, making her whole body relax, her mind set at ease. “Why don’t you have a bit of a rest, and I’ll come find you later.” Bernie is grateful at the suggestion, tired from flying and training, at the exhaustion that goes hand in hand with travel. 

She falls into bed easily, doesn’t even notice the way Serena brushes her hair back from her face, doesn’t respond to the gentle kiss placed on her forehead. 

Bernie wakes up some time later to a knock on the door, to Serena’s head poking into the room. “Oh, come in then,” she says, running a hand through her sleep-rumpled hair. Serena beams, shuts the door behind her and pulls Bernie out of bed, sits next to her on the divan at the foot of it.

"I'm glad you're here," Serena says, a little shyly, squeezing Bernie's hand. "You've been traveling so much." Bernie contemplates the way their hands fit together, how easy it has always been to slide her hand against Serena's, how their fingers slot together as if they were made from the same mold.

She's not even awed by the surroundings anymore, the trappings of the palace, of royalty. The summer house is nice, lovely even, large windows and streaming sunlight. Only now that she’s slept, that she’s more awake, she realizes she’s in a different room than the one she stayed in during her last visit. 

“This was the room that was once used to house mistresses and unsavory sorts of guests,” Serena says, with a gleam in her eye. “Sorry for its seedy past, but the benefit is a door that connects right to mine. If it’s...if you ever need it.”

Bernie rather likes the seedy history, says as much.

“Oh, it hasn’t been used that way for decades,” Serena promises, another squeeze to Bernie’s hand.

“Isn’t it being used that way now?” Bernie says, with a slow wink, and kisses the lips that have fallen open at the inability to respond to her clever remark. Their thighs are touching, and Bernie thinks she can feel Serena's heartbeat, feels like this moment, the way they are now, is leading to something more, something new, that they’re on the precipice and Bernie isn’t sure where they’ll land after they jump. 

"Don't join the RAMC, not yet," Serena says softly, so softly Bernie isn't sure she's said it until she feels Serena's shoulder bump against her own. "I know this is..." Serena trails off, and Bernie moves away slightly, so she can look at Serena full in the face, her profile lit by sunlight, her brunette hair haloed in gold, the dimple in her chin catching a shadow.

"What is this?" Bernie asks, just as soft, her hand coming up to Serena's cheek, her thumb brushing against her lips. She can feel her heart in her throat, this quiet touch somehow more intimate, more real, than anything they've done before, than their hurried snogs on Bernie's bed, than Serena falling asleep curled into Bernie's warm body, her laptop playing videos to a somnolent audience.

Serena looks at Bernie with wide eyes, deep and full of light, glittering with emotion, with want and need, and Bernie can't stop herself from leaning in, from kissing her softly, her hand sliding into Serena's hair, finding a home at the back of her neck.

She finds she doesn't need a definition for them, not as she slides her tongue into Serena's mouth, as she rolls them up on the bed, not as she can feel Serena moving against her, her body supple and willing and so warm. 

Serena moans a little into Bernie's mouth, and it makes something snap in her, makes her unable to restrain herself, to keep still, her hands fumbling at Serena's waist, pushing up her sweater, scrabbling underneath the vest she has on beneath it.

Bernie has done this before, but it feels like new territory as she places kisses against Serena's heated skin, the planes of her stomach bared to the cool air of the room, goosepimples arising along her flesh.

She strips the clothes off the future queen of England, and knows for the first time the truth of the tabloid rumors that Crown Princess Serena only wears the plainest white underwear, but she sees nothing virginal about it, too distracted by the way she can see the sharp points of Serena's nipples, pebbled peaks beneath the cotton fabric. 

Bernie leans down, grasps one between her teeth, her tongue wetting the fabric. Serena's answering groan is enough to be any encouragement Bernie needs. Her hands slide down Serena's sides, anchoring at her hips, her thumbs going beneath the waistband of her trousers, making Serena flinch, to start a little. 

She pulls away for a moment, looks into Serena's face, sees nothing but reassurance. "I'm ticklish," she says, a little sheepishly, "But by all means, continue doing what you were doing." 

And so Bernie does, fiddling with the button of her trousers, pushing them down her legs and Serena helps with their removal, kicking them off with pointed toes that only serve as a reminder that Serena had years of ballet as a child, classes to teach her the grace and poise required of a queen. 

Serena's leg comes up over Bernie's hip, bending at the knee, keeping their bodies close, their hips flush, and she can feel the wetness of Serena's pants as she presses up against her. Serena's hands begin to undress Bernie, her touch hesitant, and she doesn't know if it's from inexperience or nerves, but her fingers shake as she unbuttons Bernie's top. 

Bernie catches those same fingers in her own, never tiring of the tingle she feels at sharing touches with Serena. "It's all right, love, it's all right," she says, and doesn't even realize the word that has left her lips until she sees Serena's eyes go wide. She makes to pull away, but Serena's heel holds her fast, holds her close. 

"It _is_ all right," she says, craning up to kiss Bernie, then continues her work on the buttons, her tongue endearingly sliding between her teeth as she concentrates on the task at hand. 

Bernie watches the emotions on her face, sees that it's not fear or anxiety on her features, but a sort of awed reverence that is making her hands unsure, making her fingers shake, and she wants to do something to make it different, to have Serena realize it's just them, just the two of them, that there's nothing about her that should inspire anything like reverence.

She sheds her clothes and sees Serena's eyes seem to glow when she sees that Bernie's not wearing a bra, her hands greedily coming up to cup Bernie's chest, her thumbs rolling against Bernie's nipples. Bernie arches her head back, can't get enough of the contact, of the feel of Serena's hands pressed against her.

She rolls them so they're on their sides, facing each other. Bernie's hand goes once more to Serena's face, brushes the hair from her eyes, tucks it behind her ear. "We can stop any time you want," she says in a low, husky voice, raspier than she means it to be. Serena's eyes just go darker at the sound, and her hand moves to cup Bernie between her legs, brave and bold and she knows Serena is doing it to prove a point just as much as because she wants to do it. But she can feel the press of Serena's thumb, firm against her, even through the damp fabric of her knickers.

"You've no idea how much I've thought of this," Serena breathes, her voice just above a whisper, her fingers toying with the elastic, and Bernie can only smile and nod, because she's spent time thinking about it too, long sleepless nights, boring days in class, whenever she caught sight of a tabloid story about Serena's whereabouts. Everything about Serena makes her think about this moment, their naked bodies pressed together, their fingers inside of each other.

She kisses Serena again and again and again, and Serena, feeling emboldened, slips her hand against Bernie's dark thatch of curls, her fingers tentative, but determined, and Bernie arches into her touch.

"You'll tell me if..." Serena pulls away again, her face a little clouded, shy.

"You won't do anything wrong," Bernie says, nuzzling against Serena's neck, sliding the straps of her bra down her shoulder, fumbling with the clasp at her back. She kisses the throbbing pulse point, her lips wet and sloppy, and she lets her teeth graze the tendon, can feel Serena shudder against her.

And then Serena's fingers are inside her, first one, then another, curling ever so slightly, her thumb pressing against her clit, the touch against that bundle of nerves making fireworks spark behind Bernie's eyes and she can't help but grind slightly against Serena's hand, her own fingers skittering against the smooth skin of Serena's back, unfettered now by clothing.

Serena continues her exploration, thrusting slightly, moving in an awkward rhythm, and Bernie groans slightly because she just wants more and more and more and doesn't know if she will ever get her fill of Serena. 

She brings a hand between them, slides it against Serena's, guides her to a faster movement, another finger sliding inside of her and she pants at the feeling of it, at feeling full from it. 

Serena looks at Bernie with searching eyes, looking for reassurance, for guidance, and Bernie can't do anything but let her eyes flutter close in pleasure, her moan a signal of her pleasure as Serena continues her ministrations. 

And when Serena presses her lips to Bernie's, it's enough to push her over the edge, to make her come, Serena's mouth swallowing the sound.

She feels sated and sweaty and happy and giddy, and so many emotions that she can't keep pent up inside her, lets loose the loud guffaw that she always tries to hide, the laughter spilling out of her, an audible manifestation of her joy. Her arms come around Serena, hugging her, keeping her close, keeping them together.

"I'll wait," Bernie promises, kissing Serena's cheek, her ear, anything her lips can reach. She doesn't know what she's promising, what she's waiting for, just knows that whatever Serena asks, she'll give it to her, knows in her heart that this isn't something she can let go of.

They spend the next three days in sex-sated bliss, orbiting each other, gentle caresses to the shoulder as they pass by, a squeeze at the hip, a touch to the ankle. They fall asleep together, long naked limbs wrapped around each other like vines. Bernie's tanned arms hold Serena close, blonde and brunette locks mingling on the pillows. It all seems easy, perfect, and Bernie thinks she could live in this bubble forever.

Things deflate a bit when Ric, Sian and Henrik appear and they can no longer spend every waking moment touching each other. Ric gives Bernie a knowing smile when he catches her lingering stare as Serena walks away, she gets an eyeroll from Sian when she can't stop herself from putting her hand at Serena's lower back as they walk through the house. Henrik stays silent, and Bernie thinks that's as good as any verbal approval she might get. 

Bernie stays a day after everyone leaves, a way to say goodbye before they part for the rest of the summer. As soon as the car leaves the estate, the three guests in tow, Bernie can't stop herself from turning to Serena, capturing her lips in a kiss. "I've missed this," she says in between pecks, then sliding her arms around Serena's neck, slipping her tongue between her lips. 

"Me too," Serena hums in agreement, her words muffled. Bernie walks Serena backwards towards the house, unwilling to stop kissing her, unwilling to go a moment longer without kissing her. They bump into a door, Bernie telling Serena she'll kiss the bruises better later, they fumble down the hallway, and Bernie finally decides to lift Serena, to wrap those legs around her, to carry her to the bedroom.

She lets Serena fall back against the bed, her hands moving up Serena's stomach, taking her shirt with them, fingers pulling at the hem, and Bernie's mouth dips down, her tongue circling Serena's navel.

For all they've slept together, all they've done, Bernie hasn't done this yet, but when she reaches for Serena's shorts, she's met with no resistance, just hooded brown eyes, darker than she's ever seen them. 

The scent of Serena fills her nostrils, deep and musky, a tinge of chlorination from the pool that makes Bernie smile, that makes her think of summer, that will make her think of summer for the rest of her life. Serena's hand tangles in her hair, holding her close, and Bernie feels her fingers tighten as her tongue flicks out, tastes her, teases her. 

She sucks at Serena's clit, revels in the flavor of her, savors it. She can't get enough, feels Serena tighten then release above her, but doesn't stop, keeps licking, keeps pushing, keeps going until Serena falls over the edge again, her hand going slack. Bernie rests her head against Serena's inner thigh, her hand making gentle circles against Serena's heated skin, and she feels at peace again. 

"I wish this was forever," Serena says softly, her voice coming as if from far away, and Bernie moves slightly, looks up through the haze of her fringe. 

"What do you mean?" she asks, though thinks she might be scared of the answer, scared of what it might mean to be Serena's forever, scared of what it might mean to not be. 

But Serena doesn't answer, just lets her hand go back to Bernie's hair, threading through the pale blonde strands, and closes her eyes.

-

Bernie gets a call the day before she's set to move back into the Lensfield Road house. It's from a number she doesn't recognize but she slides her phone open anyway. 

"Bernie?" The voice on the other end is instantly familiar, the voice Bernie has come to most like hearing in all the world. 

"Serena," Bernie breathes, can't keep the pleasure from her voice, finally acknowledges the ache in her chest for the last month has been from missing the other woman. 

"I...I have something to tell you," she says, and Bernie can imagine her biting her lip, her downcast eyes, feels a shot of worry spike through her too. 

"I'm going abroad for this term. Going to America. Harvard." The words come out in choked spurts, and Bernie feels taken aback, because Serena knew, had to have known, through the summer, through it all, and didn’t say. "I just...I want to have some time away from England before I can't ever really do it again." It's the first time Bernie can think, really, of Serena wanting to something for herself, wanting to put herself above the crown she will one day wear. 

"Okay," Bernie says, doesn't know what else to say. She can't stop Serena from doing anything, doesn't think that's her right, that's her place.

"I'm waiting for you," she says after a moment, "You asked me to wait, and I'm waiting." She feels angry, now, the emotion bubbling up, unanticipated, unasked for. 

"Yes," Serena says, and Bernie can hear the emotion in her voice, even from that one word. 

"Why can't you wait until I can come with?" There's a crack in her voice that Bernie hates, that she wants to banish, tries to firm up her resolve, her words. 

"I can't," Serena says. "Oh, Bernie. I can't." Her voice is thick and wet and Bernie knows she's crying, can feel the tears dotting her own cheeks, swipes at the salty drops angrily. 

"So that's how it is," Bernie says, tries to make her tone flat, emotionless. "I wait for you, your commoner consort, just hoping that Princess Serena will find the time for me." She almost hangs up the phone, but hears Serena crying and can't quite bring herself to be that cruel.

"It's not, Bernie. I lo-" She stops herself mid-word, and Bernie thinks she knows what Serena was about to say, just snuffles loudly into the phone, snot mixing with her tears. "This is just something I have to do." It's not enough, Bernie thinks. She just feels angry and sad, can't imagine a life at Cambridge without Serena at her side, without Serena to come home to, without Serena to fall asleep beside every night. 

"Good luck," Bernie says, and hangs up the phone, wipes at her face once more and vows not to shed any more tears about Serena McKinnie.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and leaving such lovely comments along the way. I wrote this fic like two months ago, and thought I was over caring about it, that I'd already moved past it, but it turns out that I care about it a great deal, and I'm glad it's something people have enjoyed so much. It means a lot!
> 
> Thank you, also, to my best bud and favorite cheerleader Jess for always being alongside me on this journey.

When Bernie arrives once more at the house that used to feel like home, she's in a sour mood. She does her best not to even look at the room at the end of the hall, to pretend it just ends at Sian's room. She dumps her bag on the twin bed, digs for the sheets she'd washed the week before. 

"She told you the news, I assume?" Sian's voice comes from behind Bernie, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorframe. 

"She did," Bernie answered in clipped tones, turning back to the task of making the bed. She stretches the fitted sheet into the corner only to have another corner snap free. 

"I believe you were warned about becoming involved with the crown princess." Bernie sighs loudly, as much from her frustration with the sheets as from Sian. 

"Yes, well, you were right. Is that what you'd like to hear? What's the fastest way to end this conversation?" Bernie pushes her fringe back off her head and looks over her shoulder at Sian. 

"Hmm," is all Sian says, and she pushes off the doorframe, turns her back on Bernie. "She'll be back in the winter." The words float in like a promise or a curse, and Bernie can't decide. 

The fall term is as good as Bernie can expect it to be. She goes to her classes, she studies. She goes to sleep at night, doesn't stay up watching television, the sense memory of Serena tucked up against her in bed too strong for her to find any enjoyment in mindless late night TV. 

She finds a different place in the library to study, doesn't return to the carrels where she and Serena spent many evenings with their books. She sat there once, found the tiny "S+B" carved into the corner of the wood and felt tears form in her eyes, hid in a desk on another floor, eradicated one more memory of Serena from her mind.

The problem, she's found, is that Serena made herself such a part of Bernie's life, intrinsic to it, and every thing she does around the campus makes her think of Serena, in some small way. She's having to reinvent her experience, her routines, everything, just to keep the reminders of the woman she lost away.

Her friends are sensitive with her, keep their distance. She's more prone to snapping, to getting angry. She feels more on edge with every passing day, no longer having someone to confide in every evening, having that warm smile, those glittering eyes, to greet her when she opens her bedroom door. 

She doesn't see or talk to Serena for the whole of the fall semester, doesn't send her an email, stays away in a petty rage. Sian, surprisingly, is kind, talks loudly about Serena to Henrik and Ric, loud enough that Bernie can overhear, so she knows the comings and goings of her one-time paramour without having to ask, to beg for the little details that she otherwise deprives herself of. 

Postcards come to the house occasionally, addressed to all of them, but Bernie never reads the back, doesn't even want to see that beautiful loopy writing, the lovely way she signs her name. 

It's a surprise, then, when in late November, Serena appears at the door to their little house on Lensfield Road, her cheeks pink from the cold, a fur hat pulled down over her ears, a red coat buttoned up around her neck. Bernie is the one who opens the door, who sees Serena standing there, and doesn't even know what to say, just holds onto the doorknob, mouth slightly open. 

"Can I come in?" Serena says after a long moment where they just stare at each other. Her voice is just as smooth and lovely as Bernie remembered. She moves aside, aware that she's still not said a word, doesn't have a thought in her head as to what she could say. 

Sian bounds down the stairs, looking happier than Bernie's ever seen her. "I thought I heard you pull up," she says, embracing Serena, a display of emotion Bernie didn't know her roommate was capable of. "Are you back?"

"Just for a few days. American Thanksgiving. I don't think I'm legally allowed to celebrate," Serena says with a laugh, her face buried in Sian's hair. 

"You can sit with us, Berenice," Sian says, making Bernie start, shocking her into movement. She sits on the edge of the sofa, feeling tentative, shy, unsure of herself. It feels unreal to be sitting so close to Serena, after spending so much time putting her out of her thoughts. 

"Have you had a good semester?" Serena asks, pulling her arms out of her coat, shrugging it off behind her. She looks between Bernie and Sian, waiting for an answer. When it becomes clear to Sian that Bernie has apparently become mute, she answers the question, holds the conversation, though Serena keeps looking at Bernie, as if she's waiting for her to do something, to react, to speak.

Bernie doesn't, though, can't think of a thing to say, her brain turned off, unable to truly function. Eventually she pretends to receive a text message, manages to croak out that she has to get back to studying and escapes up the staircase, almost tripping as she goes. 

She stares at her textbook without really reading anything, her vision going wavy in front of her, the lines of text looking like nothing more than squiggles to her eyes. She doesn't know how much time has passed when she hears a knock on the door, hears it open, knows what she'll see when she turns around.

"Can I come in?" Serena asks for the second time that evening. Bernie twists her body, grimaces slightly as she feels a pain in her lower back at the movement. "All right?" Serena moves immediately to Bernie's side, her hand touching Bernie's back with a familiarity that makes her heart ache. 

"Just stiff," Bernie says, shrugging away from the touch, and Serena draws her hand back, folds it in her lap, her eyes looking at Bernie, dark and searching. "How are you?" Bernie asks, finally managing a question, manages something that doesn't sound silly or inane. 

"All right," Serena says softly, sitting back on Bernie's bed so her back hits the wall, and Bernie mimics her position, keeps distance between them, though it would be so easy to reach out and grab her hand. 

"I wanted to...apologize?" Serena sounds so uncertain of her words, but Bernie doesn't feel like making anything easy for her. "I'm sorry for the way we left things," Serena continues, and looks down at her hands, her fingers twisting together. "And I'm...I'm here because I have to tell you that when I come back, we'll be announcing my engagement to Edward." Bernie once again can't think of anything to say, just stares stonily at her opposite wall, at the poster of Kelly Smith, her face intense, the photo caught in the middle of gameplay. 

"Being away, I just, it's made me realize that it's time to stop playing about, that I have to accept the crown, and everything that comes with it." 

Bernie doesn't know what part of the statement to react to: the idea that Serena's been playing about, that she's about to commit to a man she doesn't love because of obligation, any of it. Her nose twitches slightly, belying her anger, her frustration. 

She wants to scream that Serena doesn't have to do any of it, that they could find their happily ever after somehow, but there's fear mixed in, fear that wonders what happens if Serena does give everything up for Bernie, how Bernie can ever live up to that. 

"I wanted to tell you in person," Serena continues, her voice unhappy, and one hand moves off her lap, to the space between their legs on the bed. 

"How kind," Bernie answers finally, hating the vitriol that threads through the two words. She glances sideways at Serena, sees the tears gathered in her eyelashes, does the only thing she can think of and grasps Serena's hand between her own. 

She doesn't know what to say, or how to say it, so all she says is, "I want you to be happy," and raises the back of Serena's hand to her lips, kisses it gently, wetly. 

"Me too," Serena whispers, and touches her forehead to Bernie's before pulling her hand away. "You don't have to wait for me anymore," she says as she stands, "but it means so much to me that you did."

It's a release, a blessing for Bernie to continue living her life, but as Serena shuts the door behind her, Bernie doesn't know what a life without her looks like, really looks like. Because even with the months of avoiding thinking about her, talking about her, looking at the places they shared together, all it really ended up being was a backwards way to remind herself of every moment she spent with Serena, and everything they were. 

She sits on her bed, staring at the wall, for a long, long time.

-

When Serena returns to the house on Lensfield Road in January, there's a flurry of press and speculation about the upcoming announcement said to be coming from the palace. Bets are placed on whether or not it'll be engagement news, articles about Bernie from the previous year are dredged up, the photo that was taken at the reception once more staring at Bernie from checkout lines and newspaper stands. 

She grits her teeth, knows what the announcement will say, has been preparing for this news, has been preparing to see it, to be confronted with it. 

One morning in late February, Sian slides a newspaper under her door, a picture of Serena and Edward holding hands, a large ring on Serena's finger. She's stuck a Post-It on the front page that says, "I told you she'd never marry a commoner." Bernie knows it's meant to be funny, an old joke between them now, but she just shoves the newspaper under her bed and plonks her pillow back over her head. 

She hopes it'll all get easier when Serena graduates in the spring, though it's not as if she sees Serena much anymore, as she's been pulled into wedding planning meetings and she has her final exams to prep for, her qualifiers, and spending time with Bernie Wolfe doesn't seem to have a place on her to-do list. And for once, Bernie is fine with that. 

She still has two more years to go in her program, tries to imagine the house without Sian or Henrik or Serena, wonders if she and Ric might look for someplace smaller, just the two of them cramming for their medical exams together. She thinks fondly of a world where they get to be F1s together, move up their way through the ranks together. She thinks, in the end, she's glad she didn't leave to join the RAMC, didn't abandon her schooling, that she's found something important here, even amidst the heartache.

There are moments, few and far between, where Bernie catches Serena’s eye, where they stare at each other, and Bernie feels like every emotion she’s ever felt about her is pouring out of her gaze, can’t hold it back, can’t dam the flow. There’s a wistfulness about it, time slows, the world shrinks to the two of them, and it’s only when Bernie’s jostled by Ric, or her cell phone chimes, or any other number of small annoyances crops up, that the moment breaks and Serena’s eyes shutter, going blank, as if it never happened.

“Never could keep your eyes to yourself,” Sian says one evening, after one such occurrence from across the floor of the Eagle. She delicately sips at her cocktail, pink with an umbrella, and rolls her eyes at Bernie. “You two are a bit hopeless.”

“I’m fine,” Bernie says, tries to ignore Sian’s scoff. She makes a point to not look in Serena’s direction for the rest of the evening, not even when she hears her laugh at some no doubt idiotic joke from Edward. “I’m fine,” she says, when she leaves early and Henrik asks if she’s all right. “I’m fine,” she says to her reflection when she’s brushing her teeth, the foaming toothpaste spilling from her mouth, and wonders when she stopped believing it.

Invitations go out for Edward and Serena’s engagement party, and Bernie dithers about whether or not to go, keeps the card on the top of her desk, spends too many hours staring at it while she decides if she’ll attend, imagining what it’ll be like. 

“She wants you there,” Ric says over a pint one evening. “Your name wouldn’t be on the list if she didn’t want you there.” He sips at his Guiness, foam coating his upper lip and Bernie chuckles softly. 

“Perhaps it’s just royal protocol. Be polite to the women you’ve slept with.” She toys with the coaster in front of her, twirling it on its corner, brow wrinkled in concentration, as if this small square of cardboard is the most important thing. 

“The _woman_ ,” Ric clarifies. “I think it’s fair to say the situation is a little unprecedented, Wolfe.” Bernie doesn’t look up, just shrugs her shoulders a little. She knows it’s unusual, but also knows she’s not the first person in the world to be cast aside by a member of the royal family. In the end, Ric convinces her to go, says he’ll be at her side the whole time. 

She doesn’t put on a dress, feels like the Bernie that wore gowns and makeup is a different person, a part of a different world. She wears a suit, tailored trousers and a light blazer, combs her fingers through her hair and pronounces herself ready to go. Ric gives her an approving nod and they take the Underground together to the palace. 

It’s different than any other time Bernie’s been to an event there, she no longer feels like she’s fully welcomed in Serena’s orbit, feels slightly alone. She knows there are eyes on her, speculation about her, moves to stand closer to Ric, is grateful for the glass of white wine he hands her. She can see Edward and Serena mingling, a respectful circle formed around them, Serena’s ring visible even from far away, sparkling in the light. 

Bernie never thought, really, about proposing to Serena, but she knows that if she was ever to buy a ring for the other woman, it would be smaller, simpler, because Serena has never craved attention, has never wanted to be flashy or showy, just puts up with it as a requirement of her standing. 

“She’s lovely tonight, isn’t she?” An unfamiliar voice sounds from behind Bernie and she turns, almost drops her glass when she sees the Queen of England behind her, fumbles into an awkward half-bow, half-curtsy, and Adrienne smiles, a little condescendingly, though Bernie thinks she’s earned it. 

“Engagement seems to suit her,” Bernie says carefully, proud of herself for stringing together five words that make a coherent sentence. 

“Mmm,” Adrienne hums, sips from her own glass of wine, smooths the front of her dress with her other hand. She just _looks_ regal, stately, beautiful and strong, the same dimpled chin as Serena, the same beautiful eyes, though her hair’s gone pure white, pulled back from her face. “Serena understands what is expected of her, I think.” 

Bernie isn’t quite sure what to say to that, wills herself not to shrug her shoulders, thinks that’s some sort of faux pas when interacting with the queen. “She looks happy,” she says after a pause that feels too long, with Adrienne’s eyes searching her face. 

Adrienne lets the moment linger, staring at Bernie for another moment before saying, “Serena must choose between duty and happiness. She will not be the first, nor will she, I’m afraid, be the last.” It’s then that Bernie thinks the queen knows that the rumors are true about her daughter and the girl standing in front of her now. She wonders if she and Serena had late night chats, if Serena spilled her heart out about Bernie, if Adrienne commanded that it wasn’t to be. 

Bernie feels a spike of hatred for the queen, for this place, for all the trappings of royalty, for being the thing that is keeping her from being with Serena, from being able to kiss her in public, from holding her hand, from loving her. She mumbles something, an excuse to leave, and turns on her heel, thinks this will be the last time she’ll come to the palace. 

She sends a text message to Ric, tells him she left, to enjoy the rest of his night, goes back to her quiet house, and goes back to studying her textbooks, telling herself that if Serena can go about with her daily life as though everything’s fine, so can she. She keeps telling herself that, falls asleep with her face on the page, that reminder the last thing going through her brain.

-

Bernie feels strangely nostalgic and yet detached when graduation comes, when she watches her friends at their various ceremonies walk across the stage, caps and gowns and hoods. The photo of Serena accepting her diploma is in the papers the next day, emblazoned with the headline "McKinnie Matriculates," and Bernie stares at it for far longer than she means to, ends up shoving it under her bed with the other newspaper, knows that when she moves out finally, and for the last time, whenever that is, there will be a treasure trove of Serena to uncover. 

She spends the summer at Cambridge, not up for another month of travel, not invited to the summer estate, doesn't think she could bear it, really, not after her last stay. She enjoys the quiet independence of it, living alone in the home that usually houses four students and a special agent. She rattles around, leaving dirty dishes in the sink, piles of laundry on the sofa. She feels more like an adult than she ever has. 

An invitation to the McKinnie/Campbell Wedding arrives in the mail, expected but still difficult to see. It’s ornate, fancy, the kind of invitation many would pay large sums of money to receive, but all Bernie wants to do is throw it away. Sian texts her to say that as a friend of Serena, she's expected to be there, that it helps to humanize the princess if she has raggedy friends who can't brush their hair. Bernie snorts at that. A friend of Serena, like a euphemism. She’s sure the press will be as interested in photographing her face as they will be in photographing the happy couple.

Up late one night, the only light in the house the small lamp by her bed, Bernie leafs through The Phantom Tollbooth, once lent to her by Serena, never returned, the pages dog-eared, the cover worn.

She pauses every once in a while, overwhelmed with memory and feeling, thinks of that first real conversation they ever had. She touches the illustrations with gentle fingers, imagines a young Serena reading the book in the exact same position Bernie's in now. 

When she hears the front door rattle, then open, she warily creeps out of bed, peers down the steps, trying to make out anything in the darkness. The lamp by the sofa flicks on, and Bernie can see Serena standing here, bathed in the soft yellow glow. 

"Hi," she says, softly, her hand paused on the pull for the lamp. 

"Hi," Bernie says, just as quiet, and continues her slow move down the stairs until she's face to face with Serena. 

"Sarah's just outside, so don't think you can get away with bodily harm to my person," Serena says, with a small quirk of her lips, and Bernie has to remember who Sarah is, the memory of Agent Ginger flooding back. 

"I wouldn't dare," Bernie says. "Can we sit, or does whatever this clandestine meeting entail require us to stand?" Serena smiles again at that, and gestures to the couch, folding up in one corner, her legs crossed, hands resting on her knees. 

"Why are you here?" she asks, not unkindly, settling at the opposite end of the sofa, holding a pillow in her lap, fingers pressing into the silken material. 

"I was thinking about...our last conversation." Her eyes are wide, but she has that look of steel about her, the look Bernie has come to know well, the look that says she's made a decision of sorts, that she's being brave. 

"I want to be happy," Serena says. "And you want me to be happy. And I want you to be happy." Bernie frowns slightly, knows a wrinkle is forming between her brows. 

"Yes," she agrees, because there isn't really a statement within Serena's rambling that she disagrees with. 

"I've just been thinking about what would make me happy. And what it might - what it might mean to be happy." Bernie watches her, doesn't push, just waits her out, knows Serena's been planning this, been thinking about this, that she's got a point and that she'll get to it at one point or another.

"I'm thinking about what it might mean to...." Serena chokes slightly on her words, looks a little helplessly at Bernie. And Bernie has only ever wanted to make Serena feel better, in her heart of hearts, has only ever wanted to be there for her, so she leans forward and takes one of Serena's hands between her own, runs her thumb along the back of her hand, lets her forefinger caress the inside of her wrist.

"What if I weren't ever going to be queen," Serena says in a jumbled rush, her words tripping together, and she looks so nervous and scared, on tenterhooks, just waiting to hear what Bernie has to say, like she thinks Bernie might only have ever wanted her because of her station, because of what she is and not who she is.

“I wouldn’t care if you were a dog-walker,” Bernie says, sees a flicker of relief on Serena’s face and then doesn’t have any more words, just presses her lips to Serena's, pulls her close, kisses her deeply. Minutes pass and she doesn't stop, and Serena kisses her back, puts her hands in Bernie's blonde hair, twirls the strands around her fingers. She moves so she's straddling Bernie, a knee on either side of her, and Bernie remembers with a flood of emotion how much she loves the feel of Serena against her. 

Bernie brings Serena up to her bedroom, knows how well they fit together on her bed. But for the first time in this room, they undress, Serena's t-shirt going over her head makes her hair spill out from the bun she's wrapped it up in, the brown waves as soft and beautiful as ever. Bernie slides her pajama bottoms down her legs, wriggles out of her pants.

They fall together on the bed, a mess of limbs, of naked skin pressed together. Bernie mouths a trail across Serena's chest, a territory she's been deprived of for too long. When she tangles their hands together, holds them above Serena's head, she realizes Serena isn't wearing the big diamond ring, is missing the one thing she hasn't been photographed without for months. 

Bernie pauses for a moment, hears Serena whimper slightly, feels her squirm, their skin pressed close and hot. Serena’s engagement never crossed her mind, not when she appeared tonight, not when they kissed, not when they came together, it seems to exist in another world, outside of the two of them, even though it’s the reality that keeps them apart.

“Bernie?” Her name comes out in a breathy gasp and Bernie comes back to the moment, to Serena beneath her, and is consumed with want and lust and a feeling she feels too scared to say. Bernie presses her mouth against Serena’s neck and chases away any thoughts of the palace and the crown and the royal wedding with the feeling of Serena’s pulse jumping against her lips.

She continues her hold on Serena's hands with one of her own, uses the other to tease open Serena's entrance, to slide her fingers inside, feels the bucking of Serena's hips, achingly familiar and wonderfully new all at once. When Serena comes, Bernie swallows her moan with a kiss, then stares down at her beautiful, flushed face. 

She rolls off Serena, lays on her side, pushes a hank of hair back, tucks it behind Serena's ear, her hand trailing down Serena's face, chucking her chin gently. "You were saying?" she says, soft as anything, nothing but love and affection emanating from her, for this is what she's wanted, craved, missed, and how lucky she feels to have it once again.

“As if you weren’t trying to make me lose my train of thought,” Serena says with a smile, craning to kiss Bernie full on the lips, a familiar gesture, one Bernie can imagine happening years from now, the two of them still laying in bed together, with greying hair and wrinkled eyes. Her hearts stops at the idea of it, how naturally it comes to her to think of a future with Serena. 

“Mmm,” is all Bernie says, a half-agreement as she continues to kiss Serena, sliding her tongue between Serena’s lips, exploring the inside of her mouth, tasting every bit of her. Serena lets her divert them, threads her hands into Bernie’s hair, has said how much she likes the messy blonde locks, says Bernie can never crop it short, once joked she’d have to take a royal oath to that effect. 

“I was saying,” Serena says, slowing the kiss, drawing away, Bernie’s lower lip between her teeth, an exquisite sort of pain, “that there is an...alternative to me being Queen of England some day.” She pulls back, rolls out of reach of Bernie’s wandering hands, her hungry mouth. “Marjorie could be queen.” 

Bernie sits up, tries to make the world come into focus, to think about this clearly very serious discussion they’re having, to try to ensure that she’s up to the task. “If Marjorie’s queen,” she says, lingering over the words, “then what does that make you?” She grasps Serena’s hand, doesn’t want to be too far from her, feels full, in an emotional sense, for the first time in weeks, months, has to admit to herself that Serena is the reason. 

“The disgraced former crown princess who….lives with the woman she loves?” Serena’s eyes are shining and bright, and she’s so brave in this moment that Bernie feels like she might explode from the pride she feels at it all, the love that is beating in her heart. “I love you, Bernie,” she whispers, squeezing their joined hands. “I ought to have said before.” 

Bernie feels tears forming at the corner of her eyes, ducks her head so her hair hides her face. It’s what she’s wanted to hear, the thing she’s most craved since she met Serena, if she’s honest with herself. 

“What is it?” Serena asks, her voice soft, worried, her free hand sliding along Bernie’s cheek, pushing her hair aside. 

“It wouldn’t have worked to hear it...before,” Bernie says, looking up at Serena, knows that tears are staining her cheeks, feels grateful, not for the first time, that she’s never been one for makeup. She moves out of Serena’s reach. “You’ve done everything with the knowledge that you’ll be queen one day, Serena. How can you give it up? You’re...you’d be the perfect queen.” Bernie draws her knees up to chin, thoughts racing through her head, so much joy and so much pain in equal measure. 

“There might be something...more important?” Serena’s eyes are worried once more, almost fearful. 

“Your mother told me something once,” Bernie says and sees Serena stiffen, as if she’s heard speech after speech start this very same way. 

Bernie sucks in a breath. “It was about duty and happiness. I never...I never thought that anything I might do would _really_ be for god and country, not even joining the RAMC. But I think...I think this is something that might end up being the most important thing I ever do. The country needs you, Serena, you can’t give that up. Not for me.” She digs her nails into her hands, tries to keep the emotion from spilling out of her.

“You’re...saying no?” Serena withdraws, her face going dark, so far from the shining happiness of just a few moments earlier. 

“I’m saying that if you weren’t the princess, and we were just two ordinary students, sitting here on my bed, you telling me you loved me would be the happiest moment of my life.”

“But?” Serena’s voice is teary now, and she stands up, wipes angrily at the tears on her face. 

“But you are the princess. And I don’t want to be the reason you don’t become the person you’re meant to be.” She turns away from Serena, doesn’t look up, not even when she hears the door close, when she hears a car start, thinks it might be the last time she ever sees Serena McKinnie.

-

Bernie doesn’t hear from Serena again, no texts, no emails, no missives from the palace. She’s alone once more in the house, spends her days working at a small restaurant on the high street, falls into bed at night, tired and spent, studies whenever she has the time and energy, isn’t going to use the excuse of summer vacation as a reason to lose her edge. 

She again looks into joining the military, what that might mean, but Ric tells her she’s not to use that as an escape. “Besides,” he adds, “just imagine how awkward it will be when Serena has to pin a medal of honor on your chest and the last time you spoke was when you tossed her out because you were being foolishly noble.” 

“It wasn’t foolish, Ric,” Bernie says, crosses her arms. “It was for the best.” 

“Who are you to decide what’s best? You just decided the fate of all of England. Your powers of foresight must be enviable indeed.” He rolls his eyes, his sarcasm unmistakeable and Bernie just humphs in response. 

“She loves you, Wolfe. Maybe love is the happy ending, not becoming queen.” He finishes the beer he’s drinking, drops a few coins on the bar to pay for the pint, and leaves, just a pat on Bernie’s shoulder. 

Bernie thinks about this for hours, days, a week. It consumes her thoughts, and for the first time she wonders if she’s made a mistake, turning Serena away. She feels an emptiness in her chest, an ache that won’t go away. 

She moves into a flat, one she and Ric will share when the schoolyear starts again, the house too big for just two of them, and Bernie doesn’t want to have to get to know anyone new, feels like she’s been through the ringer already. 

As she packs up her room on Lensfield Road, there’s a finality to it all, the knowledge that she won’t be coming back to this place, this house, these memories. She lingers as she takes down posters, photos curling from time, smiling faces looking up at her, making her feel old, tired, sad. Serena’s in a few of them, always close to Bernie, arms touching, those sparkling eyes undeniable even in a photograph. 

She finds old newspapers under her bed, the article with the two of them in ballgowns on the front page, and Bernie can only see the affection that practically jumps off the print, even as her own eyes well up at the sight. She throws all the old papers away except for that one, smoothes it out and places it inside a notebook, to keep it safe, hidden away. A metaphor for their relationship, she thinks.

The flat is new, different, a little further away from the school, a longer walk to the library, but she enjoys the fresh air, the slightly damp feeling of the mornings as she moves along, bookbag over her shoulder. She enjoys the quiet loneliness, takes the time to put everything just where she wants it. She looks at her textbooks, goes over her notes. She talks to her parents, fends off her mother’s fluttery questions about the royal wedding, about what she’ll wear, about the reception parties after, unaware of the silent ache in Bernie’s chest with every question.

There are tabloid rumors about trouble with the royals, about the possibility of the wedding being called off, coming from “an anonymous source close to the family.” Bernie’s name occasionally pops up in articles once more, the scandal she caused Serena, speculation that she’s somehow connected to it all. She can’t decide if it’s better or worse that only the trashiest tabloids write those stories.

The summer is over before she knows it, just a few weeks before school, and she can almost convince herself the she’s fine, that she’s normal, that this schoolyear will be good, that she will excel even further without the romantic distractions of the previous years. 

The doorbell buzzes one evening, startling in the quiet of the flat, and Bernie curses the fact that the camera is broken, she can’t see who’s outside. She just pushes the button to let whoever it is up and waits at the door for the knock. 

It’s tentative, uncertain, and Bernie can’t think who it might be, isn’t expecting a visitor, doesn’t have many friends. When she opens the door, she sees Serena, hair pulled back, face bare of any sort of adornment, just clear eyes and soft skin, and she’s holding a duffel bag in both hands, holding it in front of her like a shield. Bernie can see Agent Ginger lurking around the corner, her posture straight, her gaze looking away, but she can see the furtive glances every few seconds. 

“There’s going to be an announcement in the papers tomorrow, from the palace. Marjorie will be taking the position of Crown Princess.” The words are flat, as unadorned as Serena’s face, as if she’s rehearsed them to keep any emotion out of the words. “And before you start on any ridiculous noble assumptions, I didn’t do it for you, or for us. I did it for me.”

Bernie’s mouth is dry, her jaw dropped open and she takes a few long seconds to gather her thoughts, as it all catches up with her. Serena made the choice without knowing if Bernie would take her back, she made the choice regardless of the state of their relationship. She made the choice for herself. She looks almost forlorn, nervous, like every atom of her body is focused on not reacting, not fidgeting, as she waits for Bernie’s answer.

“You...what does this mean?” Bernie says finally, because she thinks she knows, but she’s been wrong before. She feels like a smile is about to bloom across her face, like the world is about to make sense again, like the sun is about to burst through clouds, like any number of silly adages she never quite understood until now. Her fingers twitch as she wants to reach out and grab Serena’s hands, to pull her inside, to not let her leave for days on end, to not even let her put on clothes. 

“It means I need a place to stay, if you know of someone who has room?” She’s smiling a little and Bernie can’t stop herself any longer, can’t hold back, pulls Serena into an embrace, walking her into the short hallway of the flat, pressing their lips together before the door has even closed. 

When they pull apart, Serena looks at Bernie, shining eyes, a hand fiddling with a lock of Bernie’s hair, twisting it between her fingers. “You know what you said? That other night? You don’t want to stop me from being the person I’m meant to be?” Bernie nods. “I’ve been rolling that over in my mind, and I think - I think this is the person I’m meant to be, with you.”

“Are you sure?” Bernie asks, can feel Serena’s breath against her cheek, feels tears forming in the corner of her eyes and thinks that she’s broken her promise to never shed tears again over Serena, but how lovely that these tears are from joy. “I mean are you really sure?”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Serena says, and even though she’s no longer the future Queen, has no real position of authority anymore, Bernie can do nothing but obey the order.


	5. Epilogue (let me live that fantasy)

Serena’s legs are still damp, sticky, her thighs sore, as she pulls on her trousers, tossed aside from before. She doesn’t even know where her pants ended up, thrown over Bernie’s shoulder in their haste to shed their clothes. She leaves them behind. Bernie’s back is to her, she doesn’t turn around, not even to watch Serena close the door. 

Sarah is waiting in the car, a book open against the steering wheel but Serena knows as well as anything that she hasn’t been reading, knows her bodyguard well enough by now to know that she’s been keeping watch, as quietly and discreetly as ever. Serena manages to wait until the car starts moving before letting the tears fall, knows Sarah won’t say anything, won’t comment, that she’s allowed this small moment of privacy. 

_And I don’t want to be the reason you don’t become the person you’re meant to be_. The words echo around in Serena’s head, the last words she’ll hear from Bernie Wolfe. She was so certain, _so certain_ that when she arrived at Lensfield Road this evening, she would be pulled into Bernie’s arms, that she would fall asleep pressed against her, that they’d wake up in the morning to face the world. 

Instead she feels a hollow emptiness, an absence of anything except the yawning maw of finality, that things are well and truly over, that, once again, being a princess has robbed her of a shred of happiness. She knows her mother spoke to Bernie, knows her mother has made more than one suitor run scared, but somehow thought Bernie would be stronger, that their love was stronger, that it could withstand it. 

She almost laughs bitterly at all of it, at the idea that she should get what she wants from life, that the world is still so backward, so broken, that she’s only worth something to the throne if she’s married to a man who can impregnate her. She just wants Bernie, and it seems that will never be what she gets.

They reach the palace more quickly than Serena expected, no traffic in the late hours of the night to hold them up. She rubs at her face, knows it will be obvious to anyone she passes that she’s been crying, grateful the only people about are palace staff, and she has Sarah by her side, walking her to the residential area without being asked, her silent support.

“Sleep well, Serena,” Sarah says, when they reach the door to Serena’s room, and Serena looks at her in surprise, not used to hearing her given name from Sarah’s mouth. “I’m sorry about this evening.” She touches Serena’s shoulder once, a comforting gesture, and then disappears to her own quarters. 

Serena once rebelled against having a bodyguard, tried to give her agent the slip on more than one occasion. Only after sulking through a lecture from her mother, and then from palace staffers, Serena acquiesced, kept Sarah in her sights at all times, didn’t try to escape. And she found an ally, a friend. Someone who would let her have moments of privacy, time to herself. Someone who brought the woman she loved coffee when Serena kept her up too late. She wonders, really, how Sarah feels about Bernie, what Sarah thinks about it all. She’s never asked and Sarah’s never said.

Serena showers, hot, steaming, boiling, her skin pink and red and the bathroom mirror fogged up. She washes Bernie from her body, washes the tears from her eyes, scrubs like she can make herself new again. She wraps herself in a towel and sits on her bed, leaving a wet patch on the comforter. She falls asleep without knowing it, drifting off before she’s even realized her eyes have closed. 

-

Morning comes, a bulldozer Serena couldn’t stop even if she wanted to, her life feeling suddenly like a runaway train, something she has even less control over than usual. There’s a tap at her door, a maid extending the invitation to breakfast with the queen and Serena knows it’s not so much a request as it is a gilded command. She’s given ten minutes to sort herself out, pull her hair back into something to hide the bedhead, pull a robe on, tie it around her waist. 

She feels surprisingly dull, empty, flat, like all of her sharp edges have been sanded down, like her volume has been turned off. When she enters the small family dining room, it’s just Adrienne and Marjorie, sitting with the morning papers, with toast and butter, with the sun coming in through the windows. 

Serena has always tried to maintain that her life is relatively normal, with the exception of the royalty bit. There are family meals and she still gets bruises from Marjorie’s pinching fingers and more than once, she’s been admonished for slamming her door. Sometimes it’s inside the palace where she’s been treated the least like the future queen. 

Her mother and sister greet her with smiles, and Serena has to remind her face how to move in the correct way as she sits. 

“You were out late last night,” Adrienne says, and Serena wonders who told her, isn’t mad, should have expected or anticipated as much. She just sometimes wonders at the chain of divulgence; who tells what to whom. 

“I was,” Serena answers, her voice choked and sore from crying, rough and ragged. She clears her throat and says it again, more clearly. “I was.” She knows she must look almost defiant, unwilling to explain herself, granting no quarter to her meddling mother. The anger is starting to settle in around her shoulders, more weighty than her mantle as future queen, and she can feel her mind warming to the blame, stoking it like coals in a fire. 

“What were you doing?” It’s not as if Adrienne doesn’t know, but she wants to hear Serena say the words. 

She finds pleasure in the sharp spewing of the words, “I was with Bernie.” Again, Serena chooses to offer no explanation, to maintain her steady, level gaze aimed at her mother. Marjorie is watching them both over the edge of a newspaper, always a passive bystander when Adrienne and Serena go head to head, a sympathetic ear to both the crown and its heir.

“Bernie.” The way Adrienne says it has both a sense of resignation and a sense of foreboding. “I thought we decided it was best if you let her down easy.” Serena does all in her power to stop her eyes from rolling, straining all the muscles of her face as she keeps her emotions in check. 

“I don’t know that _we_ did,” Serena says, mustering patience, mustering calm, and wishing, just once, that Marjorie would stop acting like she was at bloody Wimbledon and jump in. “I don’t want to marry Edward,” she adds, because now is as good a time as any to have this fight again. She’s been stuck with him as a thorn in her side for years now, the friend of a second cousin, not horrible enough to completely fob off, but not tolerable enough to think of wedding him. She’s seen the news stories, though, seen the tweets and the posts that are all placing bets on what she’ll wear to the wedding, on how long it will be until she’s pregnant with their first child. It’s a better commendation for her acting than any BAFTA. 

“We’ve discussed this.” Adrienne lends finality to her words, her gaze sharpening as she looks at Serena, fingers interlacing as she rests her elbows on the dining table. “Your duty to your country outweighs everything.” It’s the same speech Serena has heard for years, drilled into her before she knew her alphabet. “Edward may not be the love of your life, but he is a decent person, well-connected, and can help produce heirs.” 

Serena wants to scream, because Adrienne sounds for all the world like a medieval queen, harping on ancient rituals and backwards proclamations. Instead she mirrors her mother’s posture, elbows lightly touching the white tablecloth, fingernails just digging into to the backs of her hands as she folds them together. “I will not marry Edward,” she says, calmly, coolly. 

There’s silence while they stare at each other, Marjorie has even stopped chewing. Serena sees herself in her mother, the same chin, the same nose, the same eyes, the same stubbornness. Adrienne blinks first, flicking her gaze back down to the newspaper and sniffing, the way she does when one round of an argument is over and she’s biding her time for the next phase. 

Serena feels rebellion thrum through her veins, adrenaline making her feel heady, and she leaves the breakfast table, pushes her chair back with enough force that it almost falls, but she catches it, feeling preternaturally aware of the world around her, like she’s become someone else, someone sure of herself, someone confident.

And then she gets back to her room, to her privacy, and everything comes crashing down around her, tears falling from her eyes once more.

-

It’s a slow slog, Serena finds, to put herself back together again. She stays distant from her family, makes plans to spend time in the country estate, goes for a brief sojourn to Spain under the guise of royal duties. She avoids Edward whenever possible, though Adrienne has him over for dinners more than Serena would like. For all that they’re engaged, he seems oblivious to the fact that there’s anything amiss between them. 

“He’ll be a good husband,” is all Adrienne says about the subject, just the thinnest layer of ice between them, always threatening to crack at the slightest provocation, and Serena doesn’t reply. She imagines a world where she’s the next Queen Elizabeth, unmarried and proud. “Good husband” doesn’t mean much when she isn’t living the life she wants. 

There’s never been a day in her life, a moment, when Serena wasn’t keenly aware of the future in store for her. As a child, her stuffed animals played out the coronation, her favorite teddy bear as the Archbishop, placing the crown benevolently on the head of another doll. “He should be placing it on your head,” Adrienne reminded from the doorway, never letting Serena forget the crown would one day be hers. 

Not even spending a day wrapped in Bernie’s arms, a night wrapped in her sheets, did Serena forget that she would be queen. She faults herself for allowing those attachments to form, for letting herself get too close, to fall in love. 

“Too right, it is your fault,” Sian says, never one to mince words, to hide her true thoughts. They're lounging in the country estate, too hot outside to enjoy the weather, nothing to do but spend the afternoon in the comfortable chairs in the library. Serena can't decide if she regrets inviting Sian, or if she'll provide the arse-kicking she knows she needs to get her head on straight. "You know that people fawn over as soon as they meet you. It's your job not to encourage the riff-raff." Sian sniffs and swings her legs over the armrest of her chair.

"Bernie's not riff-raff," Serena begins defensively, but Sian holds up her hand. She's heard it before. Everyone's heard everything Serena has to say about Bernie before, sometimes she thinks Bernie is all she can talk about, all she can think about. 

"She's not royal consort material either, Serena, and you know that's true. The whole lesbian thing notwithstanding - bisexual. You know what I mean." Sian adds as Serena opens her mouth to complain about the label.

Serena crosses her arm, not sure if there's a tact she can take now, sure that Sian's marshaled all her troops to attack Serena, to poke holes in every argument. "I don't want to marry Edward," she says at last, because that's true, and if nothing else, she'd like to find a way out of that. 

"Well who would, darling?" Sian says, tilting her head back. "Not much to look at and a wandering eye to boot. Though I suppose you both have that problem."

Serena wants to say that it's not fair, but she did go to Bernie's while still engaged to Edward, ring on her finger or not. It just - it feels different to her. Bernie's the one she loves, with Bernie it feels real. With Edward, it's just - it's not anything.

"I love her," Serena says quietly, because that explains everything, it is everything. It's all there is. She never thought she'd be the type to moon over someone else, to lose her head over romance. She was always the focused one, the dedicated one. And now she's the one in love.

She clears her throat. “I love her and I don’t know if it’s enough.” Sian meets her gaze, eyes soft and understanding, and the silence hangs between them. Serena doesn’t cry, thinks she’s shed all the tears she can about this, that maybe, finally, she’s crossed at least one bridge into becoming herself again.

"What will you do?" Sian asks, when a clock chimes and the moment is broken. "Will you marry Edward?" 

Serena sighs, shrugs, because she has no answer to this. When she thinks about her life, she no longer sees the throne or the crown. She doesn't know what she sees. The future is an yawning maw of emptiness and she doesn't know what's waiting for her.

When she goes to sleep at night, she thinks she can still smell Bernie on the pillow next to her, can imagine the indent left behind from her head. She doesn't just miss the kisses and the way their bodies fit together and the sound of her name spilling from Bernie's lips. She also misses the fact of Bernie, the friendship they had, the relationship they built. She misses late night television watched on a laptop. She misses hiding her laughter in a mess of blonde curls. She misses that crooked smile when she opened the door to the small house on Lensfield Road.

She thinks, if it were any other situation, Bernie is the person she would text for advice, the voice she'd want to hear telling her what to do. She tries to imagine what Bernie might say. "I've fallen in love with my best friend but being with her means I no longer get to run the country. What do I do?" When she puts it that way, it sounds silly, juvenile. She doesn't know, honestly and truly, if she's willing to give everything up for Bernie Wolfe, the woman who told her no. 

She goes back home, back to the palace, back to life with Marjorie and Adrienne and daily briefings on the state of the world and meetings with royal dignitaries. She puts on a good front, a fair pretense that all is right with the world, that things are once again normal. Adrienne even comments that she's glad Serena's come around at last, that duty has once more taken its place at the head of her priorities.

Edward comes over for dinner regularly and Serena finds excuses to leave early, to not attend. Everything about him has started to eat at her, the way he chews his food, how he starts his sentences with "Actually...," how he seems more concerned with the way their love story plays in the news than how it plays in real life.

If Adrienne notices anything, she chooses not to say, perhaps content enough that Serena's said no more about calling off the engagement.

-

Serena finds herself dreaming about Bernie. It’s not anything seedy or illicit or untoward. It’s just Bernie’s earnest face, staring into her own, dark eyes and sharp nose, her thin lips mouthing the words “I don’t want to be the reason you don’t become the person you’re meant to be.” It happens almost every night, enough that Serena’s come to expect that she’ll see the beautiful blonde when she closes her eyes. 

“Did you ever think about what you wanted to be when you grew up?” Serena asks Marjorie one day at lunch, when they're alone at the table, just the two of them and sandwiches. 

Marjorie looks surprised at the question, blinks once, then puts down her triangle of bread and pastrami. "I don't think so. What's the point of it when it was always going to be living in this palace?" She shrugs. "Why do you ask?"

"Just something Ber - someone said to me. That I'm _meant_ to be queen. I'm just. I guess I'm wondering what I'd be doing if I wasn't going to rule a country." She wishes she felt some deep abiding sense of duty to reign over England, but instead all she feels is an endless twinge that this isn't quite right. 

"Well what do you think you'd get up to?" Marjorie nibbles at the corner of her sandwich once more, sips at the tea that's present at every meal in the palace, a practical requirement for British life. 

"A teacher maybe? Someone who helps people?" Serena wishes she knew, wishes she had an answer, something that would make her feel certain one way or another about what her future should be, what her future could be.

"And you don't think you'll help people when you're queen?" Marjorie's always been like this, able to see right to the root of Serena, so good at asking the questions that unseat her. She's got a clear-eyed view of the world, wise about people in a way Serena often wishes she was.

"It's just different, I guess," Serena says. But it niggles at her, eats away at her, this idea that maybe she could be something else, the idea that maybe there is another future for her.

"Would you ever want to be queen?" Serena asks, because she doesn't know if she's ever heard Marjorie say as much, if it was always a foregone conclusion Serena would take the throne as the eldest daughter. 

"I never thought I'd get the chance," Marjorie says, avoiding the question, but Serena lets her get away with it, saw the brief glint in Marjorie's eyes, the merest glance that tells her everything she needs to know. 

It's good, Serena thinks, to imagine a future for herself independently of anyone else. Bernie told her no, shut a door in her face, and Serena's been left to put her life back together, found the pieces made quite a different picture than the one she'd thought.

It's when Adrienne begins pushing wedding planners and dress designers at Serena, when Edward spends the night in one of the many empty bedrooms, that Serena realizes the time's arrived when she has to choose, choose between her country and herself, but for the first time, thinks there might be a way to choose both.

Adrienne is hard to pin down, but Serena manages it, finds her in the royal study, penning a letter to some king or queen, Serena's sure, but she knocks on the door, a light tap, and waits to be called in.

She can see her mother's profile through the open crack of the door, the way her hair falls gently to one side, how their noses look the same. She knows how Adrienne fought for the throne, for the right to be queen, even with an illegitimate daughter, how every step of the way she had to prove herself, prove her worth. She thinks perhaps Adrienne's grip on the crown is so tight that she's lost any perspective of what it might be like for her daughter.

"Come in," Adrienne calls, and Serena takes a deep breath, the deepest of her life, maybe, and opens the door. She's barefoot, in loose trousers and a flowing shirt, her hair pulled back. It's not what one might normally wear for an audience with the queen, but Serena thinks it is what one would wear to have a serious conversation with their mother.

"I'm not going to marry Edward. It's not a fair expense on the tax-payers, it's not what I want, and I don't think it will be best for England, not in the long run." She says it in a rush, the words spilling out before she loses her nerve. Adrienne sits in silence, as if she knows there's more. "I'd rather abdicate the throne than marry...than marry anyone who isn't the person I love," Serena says. "I won't produce a biological heir, not the way you want, not the way the line of succession would dictate."

"You would give up your claim to throne for some girl?" Adrienne is calculating, clever, and she's always known what Bernie is to Serena, even as she tried to deny it all the while. "And who will be queen? Marjorie?"

"Marjorie would be a wonderful queen. And Bernie - Bernie isn't around anymore, or at least she isn't right now. I haven't heard from her in weeks - months, even. I'm not giving up anything for her." Serena's voice is stronger now, the confidence she feels in her own convictions, the strength she feels from learning more about who she is, who she really is, when there isn't a crown to hide behind, a sense of duty to shield her from herself.

"That's something at least," Adrienne says after a long pause. "Well then. I expect the letter of abdication by tomorrow morning."

The words spike through Serena like a spear. She feels a tingle of fear, of freedom, of everything coursing through her. She knows her mother, knows her well, knows that duty comes first, always. She thinks, perhaps, this was never a conversation with her mum, that it was always just talking to the queen.

Summarily dismissed, she stands, brushes her hands down the front of her trousers and is surprised she doesn’t feel like crying. She stops by Marjorie’s room, knocks on the door and waits, for the second time that evening, to be called into a room.

Marjorie is sitting in her bed, wearing pajamas that make her look five years younger and Serena suddenly feels a sense of doubt enshroud her, that she’s burdening her sister with something she’s too young for. “I have some news,” she says, feeling a bit crazed as she says it because it’s so mundane a statement for what she’s about to say. “I’m - I’m abdicating.” 

Marjorie’s head snaps up, her eyes flicking to Serena’s, as if gauging how she’s feeling, sensing who might’ve made this choice. “Are you all right?” she asks, pushing herself up, sitting tall and - Serena thinks - regal. 

“I am. I think.” Serena shrugs a little helplessly, because the whole world she thought she knew is different now, like she’s looking at a funhouse mirror and can’t find her own features amidst the garbled mess before her. “I think you’ll be better at ruling than I will, anyway.” She says it as a gift, packaged up in a bow, hands it to Marjorie. 

“Did you get demoted to lady-in-waiting?” The smirk on Marjorie’s face tells Serena that everything will be fine, and she feels her shoulders ease, feels the tension seep from her. She imagines Marjorie can do that for the country, perhaps. An England-wide breath of fresh air. 

“I’m not sure what happens to me. I’ve just been told to write a statement of abdication to be turned in by tomorrow.” She shrugs again, can’t stop it, the perfect gesture to encapsulate the full unknowing that she feels. “Probably be made a duchess of something or other, I suppose.” 

When Serena returns to her room, there’s a sense of awe about her. She left this room as future queen and she’s returning to it as - as what, she’s not sure. But she begins to pull clothes off their hangers, folds them gently and puts them in an old bag, the one she used to pack for summers at the estate. She stuffs it too full, struggles with the zipper, holds the sides together with one hand, pulling tight before she can close it all the way. 

Then, with a deep breath, she sits at her computer and begins to type the letter that will really and truly and irrevocably change her life. 

_I, Serena McKinnie the First, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories, Crown Princess, Duchess of Cornwall, Duchess of Rothesay, Baroness of Renfrew, Lady of the Isles and Princess and Steward of Scotland, do hereby declare my immutable determination to renounce the throne for myself and for my descendants…._

Her statement is short and to the point, her titles taking up more room than anything else. It prints onto one page, and she signs her name at the bottom. There’s a brief moment where she wonders if she needs witnesses, is sure there’s some royal protocol written in a stodgy book at the back of the royal library. She leaves the letter on her desk, illuminated only by the small lamp there, her pen capped and sitting atop it. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she leaves the room, doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye to the bed she grew up in, to the life she once knew.

Closing the door behind her, she feels uncertain about what to do next, about what’s ahead, then in the next moment feels just as certain that there’s only one face she wants to see, only one person she wants to talk to, only one hand she wants to hold. 

She texts Sian for Bernie’s address, is sure Sian knows it. She doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t tell Sian the news that will be the front page of every paper the next day, just waits for Sian to text back, watches the three dots on the bottom of her screen. 

When it comes through, Serena stares down at the numbers and street names, like it’s a code she has to decipher. The address isn’t terribly far from the house on Lensfield Road, Serena thinks she could walk there, if she were in Cambridge and not miles away in London. And then Sian texts again: “Just be careful with the riff-raff. They have feelings too.”

Considering that to be as much a blessing as anything else, Serena finds Sarah, asks her to make the drive to Cambridge, thinks it might be the last thing she ever asks the other woman to do for her.

Serena sits in the back of the car in silence, feeling the enormity of everything, really and truly, for the first time. She feels tears creep at her eyelashes, unwelcome visitors that she brushes away. She wills every emotion out of her body, tries to find the calm, the serenity, the oneness of purpose that is driving her as surely to Cambridge as Sarah is.

The drive goes more quickly than she would like, and Serena finds she isn’t sure what she’ll say, how she’ll feel when she sees Bernie’s face, if Bernie will even let her in. Sarah waits a few paces behind as Serena makes her way to the door, presses the buzzer. The lock clicks and Serena reaches for the handle, takes a deep breath, and looks back at Sarah, who just nods, her calm and comforting shadow. 

Bernie’s apartment is on the second floor and trepidation climbs within in her as she climbs the stairs, a sense of worry overtaking her the higher she gets. Then the door is in front of her and there’s no hiding now. Serena knocks, hates how tentative and uncertain it sounds. She holds the duffel bag in front of her, like it’s protection, like it’ll keep her safe from whatever Bernie says or does. She can sense Sarah behind her, but doesn’t want to turn to look, doesn’t want to miss the first sight of Bernie’s face when the door opens. 

And then she’s there, beautiful and lovely, her eyes tired, her lips drawn, her hair a mess, and Serena feels a finger twitch as she thinks about reaching out to run her hand through the curls. Bernie’s face morphs into a look of confusion and Serena breathes deeply once more, says as emotionlessly as she can, “There’s going to be an announcement in the papers tomorrow, from the palace. Marjorie will be taking the position of Crown Princess.” She ran through the words in her head, wanted to keep her head during this, didn’t imagine how hard it might be when she came face to face with Bernie. 

She sees Bernie’s mouth open, doesn’t know if she’s going to voice a protest or some sort of platitude, so she jumps in, adding, “And before you start on any ridiculous noble assumptions, I didn’t do it for you, or for us. I did it for me.” The sight of Bernie standing in front of her like a codfish isn’t the most romantic thing Serena’s ever experienced, but she stands still, holding her bag close, focusing every bit of energy on not reacting or fidgeting, on giving Bernie the time she needs to respond, to process. She watches the emotions flit across Bernie’s face, watches her mouth start to form words. 

It feels like an eternity before Bernie says, “You...what does this mean?” Serena could swear she sees Bernie’s hand twitch now, wonders if she’s trying just as hard not to grab onto her. She feels a smile start to quirk her lips, like maybe there’s hope and goodness in the world after all. 

“It means I need a place to stay, if you know of someone who has room?” Serena is wrapped in Bernie’s embrace before she can fully react, the feeling of their lips pressing together at once so familiar and new, a jolt of lightning between them and Serena can’t stop chasing the electricity, her mouth opening, her tongue flicking against Bernie’s lips, her tongue. 

They pull apart too soon, but when Serena looks at Bernie, she knows there’s something she needs to say, something Bernie deserves to hear. “You know what you said? That other night? You don’t want to stop me from being the person I’m meant to be?” Bernie nods, slowly, and Serena tangles her fingers in Bernie’s lovely wonderful mess of hair, running a strand between her fingers. “I’ve been rolling that over in my mind, and I think - I think this is the person I’m meant to be, with you.”

She sees the hope on Bernie’s face, can feel her breath against her cheek. There are tears in Bernie’s eyes, and Serena thinks perhaps they’ve both spent enough time crying over each other, that there are other, happier things for them. “Are you sure?” Bernie says, her voice hoarse, like she’s scared to think this is real. “I mean are you really sure?” 

Serena’s thumb brushes at Bernie’s eyelashes, catching an unshed tear. “Shut up and kiss me,” she says, imperiously as she can even though she no longer has the authority to order anyone about.

Serena knows Sarah has entered the apartment, knows that she’s going to stay out of the way, doesn’t think of her again for a moment, not when Bernie’s fully pressed against her, not when she can slide her hands under the fabric of Bernie’s shirt and feel her warm skin. Bernie is the only thing on her mind, the only thing she can think of, a dream she once thought unattainable coming true, living within reach. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss and Bernie draws Serena down the hall to her bedroom, never straying too far, touching every part of each other that they can. Serena pulls Bernie’s shirt over her head, is gratified that Bernie has nothing on underneath. “I love you,” she whispers, her lips ghosting against Bernie’s, one hand in her hair, the other skimming along Bernie’s side. “I missed you.” 

Bernie captures her mouth before she can say anything more, her tongue swirling into Serena’s mouth, tasting her completely. She’s pushing down Serena’s trousers, her pants, hands only going as far she can reach, unwilling to do anything that will stop them from kissing, stop them from touching. Serena manages to kick her clothes off, shedding her shirt and bra too. They’ve all the time in the world now, yet it feels like there’s no time to waste. 

She slides her hand between them, cupping Bernie’s warm heat, feeling it even through her trousers, slips her fingers into the waistband, finding the coarse hair, the pooling liquid, and she looks into Bernie’s dark eyes, her expanding pupils, and knows, with a surety she’s never felt, that she made the correct choice, that she’s with the person she’s meant to be with.

Before long, they’re both naked, tumbling onto Bernie’s unmade bed, knocking a textbook onto the floor with a clatter. Serena mouths into the hollow of Bernie’s neck, one finger, then two, sliding inside Bernie, her thumb toying at Bernie’s clit, and she can feel Bernie’s pulse quicken as she goes. Her name, ragged on Bernie’s lips, is the prettiest sound she’s ever heard, and when Bernie’s whole body goes taut as she comes, Serena tries to memorize the moment, before remembering she gets to have this forever, that they get to have each other until the end of time. 

-

When Serena wakes in the morning, she feels warm, happy, her cheek pressed to Bernie’s shoulder, her arm around Bernie’s waist. Bernie’s snoring softly, her hair fluttering slightly as she breathes and Serena watches the subtle movements, watches the sun move across the bed, bathing Bernie in light, so beautiful and peaceful. 

She remembers the rest of the yesterday, the realities coming tumbling around her ears. She wonders what the papers are saying, the news, any of it. She scrunches her eyes closed, trying to block out the world, to keep it all at bay, burrowing her face into Bernie’s side, as if that’s all it takes to shelter them from any of the rest of it. 

Bernie stirs at the movement, presses a kiss into Serena’s hair and murmurs good morning against her scalp. Serena hums in answer, tilting her head back to look at Bernie in the face. “I could get used to this,” she says, a sleepy smile creeping across her face. 

“Looks like you’ll have to, being ousted from the castle and all. Where else will you go?” Serena chucks Bernie’s chin, at her smirking little face, and laughs at it all. There’s a knock at the door, Sarah’s head just poking in. 

“Today’s paper, ma’am,” she says, “and if I might be so bold, I’ll remind you to eat something, keep your strength up.” Bernie laughs at that, the honking sound that Serena loves, loud and brash and everything that is good about Bernie all wrapped up in a sound.

“I always did like her,” Bernie says when she’s quieted and reaches for the paper, opens it up, and Serena can see a photo of herself on the front page, in full color. She flicks at it with her forefinger.

“Not the most flattering picture they could’ve chosen, is it?” she says, knowing they were never going to choose one of the royal portraits, one of the many photos where she’s lovely and smiling. It was always going to be one of the pictures where she looks angry, where her mouth is open and her brow is furrowed. There’s a smaller picture of Edward on the side, labeling him as broken-hearted and she wants to throw the paper away.

Bernie obligingly crumples the paper, tosses it across the room and pulls Serena back into her arms. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, pressing a kiss to Serena’s bare shoulder. “I love you. Don’t know if I’ve said before.” It doesn’t matter, Serena finds, if Bernie says the words, because she knows them, knows them deep in her bones, knows them as true as anything she’s ever known. Bernie squeezes her, and Serena feels like there’s no way they could be closer, has never wanted to be as close to another person in her life. 

She nudges Bernie’s face so they can meet in a kiss, sweet and perfect, and does feel that this is the person she’s meant to be, that this is the person she’s meant to be with.

-

Abdicating the throne is not a one-step process. It turns out there are official ceremonies to be held, more paperwork to sign. Adrienne avoids Serena as much as possible, and it hurts, deeply, to think that she’s lost her mother at the end of all of this. But Bernie stands at her side, comes to the events where she’s welcome, and holds Serena’s hand, gripped tight in her own. She tells Serena she loves her every day, in a thousand ways, and lets Serena whisper words of affection against her skin. 

When the time comes to install Marjorie in her full role as crown princess, Serena wears her finest dress, perfectly tailored, sharp and lovely. She makes sure Bernie is seated in the front row with the rest of the family, with the cousins and aunts and uncles, because Bernie is more important to her than any of the rest of them, when it comes down to it. 

Marjorie wears the robe, Adrienne holds the crown, the Archbishop standing by. Serena repeats the words of the rite in her head, her lips moving with the words, until it’s time to speak aloud. 

She says the words that makes the future she was once so sure of disappear forever, and turns, with watery eyes, towards the woman who has given her a new future, sees Bernie smiling up at her, small and secret, only meant for her. 

_**five years later** _

Serena sees her phone buzz, the text that announces Bernie’s just gotten off the tube, that she’s headed to their flat. She pokes at the pot on the stove, burned bits coming loose at the scrape of the spoon, wishes that in all their time together, this might’ve been something she improved at. 

Bernie’s keys sound in the lock and she opens the door, every picture the doctor she always dreamt of being, bright scrubs and hair pulled back, feet in sensible trainers that Serena mocks every day. “Charcoal for dinner again tonight?” she says, kicking off her shoes, dropping her keys on the table by the door, a casual routine that still makes Serena’s heart stop every time she witnesses it. 

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get over how unlikely and how lovely her life is now. 

“I never took home ec!” she says, hands up, dropping the spoon down into the pot. “Surprisingly not on the curriculum for a future queen!” Bernie laughs, gathers her into her arms and kisses her.

“I like charcoal,” Bernie says, dancing Serena around the kitchen, their legs tangling together as they move, finding a rhythm when there’s no music, a beat between just the two of them. “It’s my favorite food.” Serena smiles, chuckles, kisses Bernie’s cheek, her ear, her nose, her mouth. It fills her up and leaves her hungry all at once, and she’s sure the feeling will never change.

“How was your day, then?” Bernie asks, fingers lacing at Serena’s back, leaning ever so slightly that she can look into Serena’s eyes. 

“Oh, lovely. Secured another donor for the children’s benefit and gala in two weeks. Sarah’s wonderful at getting money out of people - I wonder if she’s not scaring it out of them.” She’s not queen, not princess, not anything but a meaninglessly titled duchess that doesn’t get her anything, but she’s found a way of helping people, working with charities, using what little clout she does have to get funds they desperately need. 

“She knows thirteen ways to kill a person, no doubt. I’d write a check if she was the one asking,” Bernie says, moving away only to turn down the heat on the stove, moving the pan into the sink. “Looks like we’re ordering takeaway?”

Serena nods, suddenly finding herself blearily, heart-stoppingly happy, the perfect moments of mundanity always hitting her just so, these moments of happily ever after in a world she never dared to dream could be hers. She shakes her head slightly to hide the emotion, sidling behind Bernie, hands going around her waist, a perfect fit. “Let’s order Indian. I’ve been craving those samosas.”


End file.
